Dawnfire
by BurningxBones
Summary: What if Eric Northman wasn't turned into a vampire in 1077 A.D? What if he continued to live his life as a Viking prince; who would he have become? What would have he achieved in his human life? This is the possible escapade that could have come to pass.
1. The Northmen Attack!

I know Northman wasn't his real human surname, but I'm going to use it anyhow, just to make it a little more straightforward.

NOTE: This story is a completely separate piece of fictional writing to the Sookie Stackhouse novels and the True Blood show. I am just using the character of Eric Northman and his past. I have changed and added a few details just to make the story flow more easily. I do not own the character of Eric Northman in anyway. NO VAMPIRES. ALL HUMAN.

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**Dawnfire**

_Her gentle beauty bewitched a Viking heart._

**The Northumbrian Coast of Scotland, 1078 A.D.**

The sky over the North Sea had barley begun to pale. Heavy gun-metal grey seas rolled, lumbering to the foot of the cliffs and broke there, dashing themselves endlessly against the staunch wall of St. Abb's Head, booming and hissing their displeasures as they had been doing, futilely, since the beginning of time.

Against the roiling, inky-purple night sky stood the ancient tower of St. Abb's, its tall, portentous silhouette commanding the headland. In the thick stone walls, the tiny windows were slits of darkness like the eyes of a sleeping beast, and puncturing the writhing clouds was the fantastically turreted and dormered profile, its stepped gable and massive parapets a clear warning to any would be violator.

The Scots sentry, huddled out of the salty wind on a turret of the tower, stared out eastward over the water with little enthusiasm as he stifled a yawn. In his many years of loyal service to the earl, there had not been a seaward raid, and there was no reason to believe one would come this night. In truth, he thought pridefully, St. Abb's had never been taken by surprise, had never been overrun during the few frightening Viking attacks of the past two centuries. There has always been a steadfast laird at St. Abb's, and Robert Renfrew, even though he was growing old, was still a good man. His son, Ian, although hot-headed, would someday be a proper laird, too.

The sentry scratched at the chafed skin under his wool tunic, then he abruptly tensed. Something did not quite fit the pattern of empty sky, empty seas, to which he had grown accustomed these many nights he'd stood watch as one of the constant nights guards. Fully alert now, he walked into the raw April wind to the edge of the turret and strained his eyes into the awakening sky, scanning the dark sea.

Yes! A black shadow fled before the wind, scudding noiselessly over the foam-tipped waves, like an ominous dark bird of prey.

Another shadow followed, then another.

The sentry counted five before he sounded the frantic alarm to wake the sleeping Hall: "Vikings! The Northman attack! To arms! Vikings!"


	2. Dawnlyn Renfrew, Lady of St Abb's Hall

Dawnlyn Renfrew was awakened by her brother's rough hands. Instantly she sat up, holding the eiderdown modestly to her chin, her heart thudding with unaccustomed apprehension. "What is it, Ian?"

"Dawnlyn, for God's sake, rise! There are five Viking ships off the Head. Father and I must organize the men. Take care of the women and children, hurry!" Ian's normally jaunty tone was harsh with purpose; his blue eyes were shadowed, cold. But not afraid.

Dawnlyn took a deep breath. If Ian wasn't afraid, then she wouldn't be, either. She'd had to do this before, twice in her nineteen years, and each time the dreaded dragon ships had passed by harmlessly, never daring to scale the inhospitable heights of St. Abb's Head, or unable to breach the high walls that protected the leeward side of the tower.

"Hand me my robe, then," she said levelly, determined not to panic or cause any of the Hall's women to do so. "Go on back to Father. I'll see to the women and children." She pulled the rich, gold-velvet robe around her shoulders, freeing her single, long, copper coloured braid with a hand, and slid gracefully out of the huge bed. "I should have stayed at Coldingham," she said, making a valiant attempt at humour. "At least, I'd have gotten a better night's sleep."

"Not likely," growled Ian. "Those accursed ships are headed for Coldingham landing, no doubt, and the nunnery there will be the first to catch their eye. Well, it might save us, if they stay there…"

"Ian!" Dawnlyn crossed herself with a slim white hand, "Pray to God nothing befalls them."

"Better them then us!" And he was off, striding out of her chamber door, his sword slapping against his thigh as he moved.

Quickly, Dawnlyn belted her fur-lined robe around her narrow waist with a gold chain. She'd dress later, when the danger was past. Then she turned to Meg, her timid but faithful maid, who was crouching on her pallet, her thin face terrified.

"Meg, get up. We're all going to the chapel now and you needn't worry - those pagan Northmen won't get into the Hall. They never have before. Now go down to the kitchen and fetch the cook and her women." Dawnlyn thought for a moment - she mustn't forget anything. "Send the boys out to Ian. He may need of them. And bring along some loaves of bread in case we have to stay there for some time." She gave the young girl a gentle push. "Hurry, Meg. And don't be afraid. Naught with happen to us."

When Meg was gone, Dawnlyn took another deep breath and glanced quickly around her with large, up-tilted, tawny eyes. There was nothing of value in her room, really, except her rosary. All of her remaining belongings were a few miles away at Coldingham, at the nunnery there. This had been her last visit home before taking her final vows, and she would leave on the morrow to return there, never to enter the walls of St. Abb's Head again as Dawnlyn Renfrew. From now on, she'd be Sister Ebba, a wife of Christ, a woman holding an honoured position in society, power, like her Aunt Gabriella, the Mother Abbess.

Hastily, she snatched the rosary and her ring of keys and strode purposefully out of her door, going to one of the narrow windows that looked out over the courtyard. There was confusion below her in the yard; men milling and shouting, horses neighing, their iron hooves ringing on the cobble stones, the slap of swords against thighs, the ring of a metal blades being tested by their owners.

The sight below brought a small stab to fear to her breast, but the battle preparations were not her affair. She shook off her trepidation quickly and bustled to the end of the corridor and down the curving stone steps to the lower reaches of the tower.

Meg had preceded her and the kitchen was deserted except for Greta, the stout cook.

"Lord above, Lady Dawnlyn!" She said, panting. "Everyone just ran away when the little twit of yours came in here crying and bawling. You'd think she'd have better sense! Fighting men need food."

Greta moved as fast as her bulk would allow. "Those men haven't even broken their fast." She piled wheels of cheese, loves of bread, better, cold chickens on a trestle table with kegs of mead and cider. "Someone's got to take these things out to the courtyard, my lady." Greta turned, surprisingly agile for all of her weight. "Ah, there you are, you no good child!" She grabbed a small boy's ear, wrenching it and dragging him over to face Dawnlyn. "Thought you'd get away, did you? And here's your mistress, boy. Aren't you ashamed? Now, get busy and take this food out to then men who are to defend you!"

"Go on, boy," coaxed Dawnlyn, far more kindly then the cook. "Quickly, now. And ask Ian for some men to help you." She turned to Greta. "Come along, now, you've done your best, the rest is up to the men."

Greta trundled along behind Dawnlyn, still mumbling that servants nowadays were cowardly, useless and uppity and never were where they were needed. Dawnlyn had heard it all before and smiled to herself at the cook's grumbling. The Hall could do with more servants like the staunch Greta and less like the timid, fearful Meg. And yet, she knew, the very word Viking was enough to terrify any woman in Scotland or, for that matter, in England or France or Ireland.

The very word conjured up nightmarish images, hushed whispers, fearful tales of rape and dismemberment, or pagan cries and brutish, heathen warriors who were impervious to pain and wounds when they turned into berserkers in their wild battle frenzy. But Dawnlyn, who knew little else save St. Abb's Hall and the peaceful Coldingham nunnery, theses were but horror tales - the reality of such nightmares had not touched her serene world.

Shaking off her dark thoughts as they hurried along the damp, half-lit stone corridor, Dawnlyn ushered Greta ahead of her into the chapel and closed the stout oaken doors behind her.

The chapel was full. She glanced around at the familiar chamber - it was as old as Christianity itself in Northumbria with its huge, unmortared blocks of grey stone, its altar and basin of holly water carved from a single slab of living rock.

She become aware of the sudden hush as she stood facing the crowed of women and children, the many pale ovals that lifted toward her, expectant, as if she were their savoir, and then the wailing and keening began again, filling the small, thick-walled chapel with tangible fear. And she thought to herself then that it wasn't fair - she was not without fear herself and yet, as always, the people expected her to be the strong one, to be their anchor in the storm. They were ever placing burdens on her shoulders, ever looking to her as if she were already a mother abbess.

Shaking off her agitation, she walked toward the altar, squeezing a hand here, talking quietly to a sobbing woman, a wailing child there. When they finally grew less fearful, she forced a confident smile to her lips. "Aye, that's better," she said softly. "There is no reason to shed tears." She turned to Greta; at least _she_ was dependable. "Greta, be so kind as to divide up the bread evenly, and the cider. We will all break out fast together and pray for safe deliverance from the Vikings. There shall be no more crying in here. We are Scotswomen and must be brave. Remember that. No one has ever conquered St. Abb's Hall and no one shall."

And then the serious minded young girl went dutifully among the women, calming them, quietly alleviating their fears, until the chapel was filled with the sound of women's chatter, even a child's giggle here and there.

Time passed slowly.

Very little could be heard through the thick stone walls, and Dawnlyn was perishing to unlatch the heavy plank doors and see what was happening outside. Waiting, she decided, was the most difficult part. Suddenly she wished she were a man and could fight, do _something_. Waiting was so hard. And to put on a cheerful face in front of the other women, to smile and seem unconcerned when her heart leaped at every sound, when her ear was cocked toward the door, wondering, not knowing.

After an endless two hours, Dawnlyn began to doubt her own brave words. By now, surly, someone should have come to tell her that the danger was past. She dared not to show her own fear, dared not to voice her doubts. They all looked to her…

"Here, my lady," said Greta softly, padding over to her mistress. "Eat something. You need your strength."

Dawnlyn met the stout woman's kind gaze and her heart gave a great thud. Greta knew! Greta had always known how great the burden was to the young girl. She closed her eyes for a second and prayed, then took the crust of bread from the woman's hand. "Thank you, Greta," was all she could force past the lump in her throat.

Gathering her long, heavy robe around her, Dawnlyn sat on one of the wooden benches and tried to chew on the bread. Her imagination began to best her iron control and she felt her hands begin to tremble slightly. With all her strength she fought the mounting fear; she tried to recall the last time there had been a Viking sighted off the Head - it had been when she was ten and she waited in the chapel with the women then, too. But that time it had seemed something of an adventure to her, and exciting event to break the monotony of her seemingly endless studies. The other children had cried and clung to their mothers' skirts, but not Dawnlyn; firstly because she had not mother to comfort her but mostly because she had been raised from birth to be serene and deliberate, to be woman of God who would one day join the church and therein be afforded much satisfaction.

As she waited while the minutes ticked by unendingly, she watched as two small children played in the chapel close to their mothers' sides. Where had her own childhood gone? In truth, had there ever been time for play or had she always been studying dutifully, seriously to become a nun?

Dawnlyn Renfrew, the people had always whispered, so sober-minded, so mature, so proud. And yet now she felt as weak as a fledgling, and where a Viking raid had once seemed an adventure, now her hands shook and her heart pounded in dread. She told herself, over and over, that St. Abb's Hall could not be penetrated, never had been, never will be. They were safe - shortly she would sit in the great hall with her father and brother laughing at the foolish Vikings. Still…

What if the unthinkable happened?

It couldn't, she told herself sternly.

But, what if…? What if the Vikings were right now scaling the walls, killing and burning in their berserker's frenzy? What if the men couldn't stop them?

No, never, it couldn't happen to her home, or to her, Robert Renfrew's educated, refined daughter who was to be a nun. It couldn't.

Like a candle flame in an evening breeze, she felt her courage vacillating and suddenly she longed to run to the doors, throw them open, scream for help. But she couldn't. Her pride and training would not allow her to show such weakness. And they all depended on her so much.

And then she heard a noise through the heavy doors. Her tawny gaze whipped around, widened. There were muffled shouts, the clang of metal on metal, a sudden harsh cry, then a terrible pounding on the stout plants.

All the woman drew in their breaths in one prolonged gasp.


	3. Eric Northmen, Hersir of Ulfrik Castle

Mighty as Stonehenge's enduring rocks, blonde and ruddy, Eric Northman stood, feet straddled, over the body of the last man he'd slain with _Lightning Bolt_ - his broadsword - and glanced around him. The battle for this godforsaken spit of land went well, even though the defenders fought bravely.

Bravely for Scots, that is. Of course, not one of them was a match for his Viking warriors. No one in the known world was a match for _them_.

The familiar noise of battle surrounded him, held him in its bloody grip; shrieks and grunts, the slap of leather, the ring of metal, the whistling of arrows that could penetrate a man's body, armour and all, and come out at his back, the chop of the hand axe as it split flesh and bone. This was his world, his life. Perhaps many Norsemen had given up these ways ages past for a quieter life, but farming or trading or even wielding the smooth tongue of the politician was not for him.

With eyes as forbidding as an arctic winter sky, Eric surveyed the courtyard and saw that the last few defenders were huddled together in front of the main door, nearly done for now excepting a slim young man, whose dark red hair showed beneath his helmet. The young one fought valiantly, ferociously, standing over a body that he defended with what was obviously his last ounce of strength.

It was almost over.

Eric smiled to himself grimly; it made him appear even more grisly then did his blood-spattered clothes, frightful looking helm with its cruel nosepiece and the string of sharp-tipped, white fangs that hung around his corded neck.

If it hadn't been for his daring idea of climbing the very cliffs beneath the tower, they might have wasted weeks sieging the well protected keep. As it was, they'd surprised the enemy completely, taking the Hall easily, with only the loss of one man on the dangerous, slippery, black climb up the sheer cliff. And that man would go to Valhalla proudly, having died in battle.

Eric eyed his lieutenant, Sven, who had just brought down the red-haired one with a glancing blow to his head that dented the helmet but probably not the young man's skull. Well executed. Another man to do Eric's bidding as the new lord.

Finally the remaining defenders lowered their swords; it was obvious that they could not prevail. Eric surmised by the way the defeated men kept glancing at the fallen red-haired boy and the older one he had tried so hard to defend that they were the men of authority - the earl and his kinsman, perhaps.

Sven was rolling over the earl's body, pulling off his helmet, uncovering his grey hair. Yes, the man lived, struggling to his hands and knees as Eric strode toward him.

"Yield! Tell your men to throw down their weapons." Eric's deep voice rang out clearly in the now silent courtyard. The language came back to him, but slowly and rusty on his tongue. It had been years since he had answered his mother or her priest in their own language.

The grey-haired man tried to stand, his movements groggy and flaccid. He looked around at the bloody carnage and the towering, rugged Norseman who surrounded him, grinning wolfishly at his defeat.

"Yield!" Repeated Eric.

"I have but little choice," said the man finally and then, for the first time, he noticed the red-haired youth stretched out at his feet. "Ian." His voice was filled with pain, as if strangled; he knelt at the boy's side, but Eric jerked him roughly to his feet again.

"The whelp's yours?"

The earl nodded sadly.

"He's just been knocked cold. He'll be up soon enough." Eric kept his voice harsh, unrelenting, but silently he acknowledged the man's fear for his son. "What is your title?" He asked the earl.

The man straightened up, wincing slightly. He faced Eric bravely, without cowering or pleading for mercy. "I am Robert Renfrew, Earl of St. Abb's Hall. This is my son, Ian." His voice was strong and proud.

"You are no longer earl of these lands. I am now the Jarl of St. Abb's Hall. I, Eric Northman, Hersir of Ulfrik Castle, claim this land as my own. I have won it in fair battle."

Robert's gaze fell away. "Aye, that you have, Eric Northman."

"Swear allegiance to me and you will be allowed to go free, about your own business. I mean no more harm to anyone. I wish to rule in peace here."

"My own business," ground out Robert bitterly. "I have no business. You've taken it from me."

"No doubt we can find a place for you here in_ my_ Hall." Eric watched the man carefully, gauging his mettle.

"I thank you, kind sir," said Robert sarcastically. Then, "may I take retainers and go elsewhere?"

"Nay, I need more men to work here."

"Then I have no choice at all. I place myself in your hands. I ask for mercy for my son and…" he stopped suddenly.

"Have you womenfolk here?" Asked Eric, guessing at the man's unfinished sentence.

"Just servants," said Robert cautiously, "and I ask for your mercy on their behalf also."

"You'll have mercy, old man," growled Eric, "if you behave yourself and keep that young one in line."

"Father, don't believe him," came a weak voice from behind them. "you know what he is. A liar! A Viking's word's not good enough to spit on! He'll take what he wants and kill us all anyway," called Ian from where he lay on the ground. He tried to rise, but Sven put a leather-shod foot on his shoulder and knocked him backwards roughly.

"Ian!" Cautioned Robert, the light in his eyes restored now that he knew his son would live.

"Yes, warn your whelp to mind his ways," said Eric, turning back to Robert. "he misjudges my intent and insults me greatly."

Ian, unnoticed, had gathered his strength and suddenly flung himself at Sven, snatching the man's belt-dagger. "Killers! Heathens!" He shouted as he stabbed wildly at the lieutenant.

Effortlessly, Eric stepped across the intervening space and knocked Ian's hand aside, then twisted his arm behind his back until the youth was brought to his knees, gasping in pain.

"Yield!" Eric's lips turned down in a snarl.

"Never, heathen pig!" Shouted Ian, even as he felt the joints of his arm creak and begin to separate under the strain. Then he gathered what little spittle remained in his mouth and spat at the Viking's shoe that lay just under his nose.

Eric flung him aside as one would a pup. "I have offered a just peace and see what I get? Put these men in the dungeon to cool their heads. I'll have no insubordination in _my_ Hall."

"But the wounded -" began Robert.

"Let them sit and wallow in their own pain. No doubt it will do them all good, especially your insolent pup."

He shouted orders to his men to take the Scots to the dungeon, to post a sentry and see that no one, _no one_, see the prisoners until he gave word.

The young upstart, Ian, was dragged off, still cursing impolitely while blood ran down one side of his face, striping him savagely with crimson. The other men went more quietly, dejected, ignoring the ribald Norse laughter and joking around them, even though they did understand a few words of the foreign language.

The former earl turned just as he was about to enter the tower. His face was lined with worry. "The women," he said, "you promised mercy…"

Eric looked for a moment into the man's eyes. "So I did," he said slowly. "I am a man of my word. Your women will come to no harm."

"But…" Robert's gaze swept the scene of Viking warriors collecting behind Eric. "But your men…"

"Are no different from any others," said Eric roughly, growing agitated by the old man's unnecessary concern. "my men will have their sport, old one, but we are not slayers of women and children. Be gone, I tire of your prattle."

When the Scots were ushered away, Eric turned and gestured for Sven to follow him into the great hall.

"Where do you expect they'll be?" Asked Sven.

"In the chapel, of course," answered Eric, smiling implacably, "where all good Christian women should be."

Then he turned to face the warriors who crowded in behind them. With the careless authority of one who is used to being obeyed, he raised a silencing hand. "Take what you will within these walls," he said, "but there will be no more blood spilled this day, as we have need of the womenfolk to do out bidding. Now go," he gestured toward the corridor, "and heed my words well…no more bloodshed!"

"I hope they save a young one for me," mused Sven with a savage grin as he stood next to his leader.

"Don't fret, Sven, you'll receive your share of shrinking woman-flesh."

"You'll join us this time?" Asked Sven, looking wistfully toward the dark corridor.

"Perhaps." Eric lips curled into a frown. "As I plan to remain here, I may as well seek warmth for my bed."

Sven strode away, calling over his shoulder, "Perhaps the old earl has a daughter…"

"No doubt," Eric muttered, looking pensively around his new holdings. "and no doubt she's married, toothless and ugly as a toad."


	4. Yield To Me

When the first rampant Viking burst through the chapel doors, emitting a thunderous roar of victory, a great hush fell over the women; it was as if a glacial chill suddenly swept the air, freezing them in their stances.

Dawnlyn's eyes fixed in terror on the monstrous Viking who stood on the threshold, tall and menacing like all his breed, his lips split into a wide, lascivious grin in his thick blond beard. His shirt of chain mail was grimy, half dried blood spotted his helmet, his face, his leather battle harness.

The long, grooved broadsword sheathed in his belt still dripped with the blood of Scotsmen, and Dawnlyn's stomach lurched sickeningly at the sight. Then one of the women cowering in the corner let out a thin, eerie wail, breaking the heavy silence as if she had some private, awful knowledge of which no one else was yet aware.

Then more of the Norsemen stood behind their fellow, some with swords and war axes in hand, others simply staring, their wild blue eyes wide with blood frenzy and anticipation.

They poured through the door until it seemed like dozens were pawing at the women, slinging them over their broad shoulders, heedless of the terrified shrieks and bawling children.

Dawnlyn remained frozen in mute dread, clutching the loose folds of her velvet robe around her small body, her heart pounding furiously with horror at the scene of brutality.

It was as if a terrible nightmare were unfolding before her very eyes. She'd never seen men behave this way, never even realized they could be so bestial.

With a quavering breath she closed her eyes to the sight, telling herself that this was not really happening, that when she opened them again it would be her father and Ian who stood in the chapel.

Sounds of coarse laughter reached her ears and she blotted them out, striving desperately for some kind of control in the face of this horror.

And yet her mind rebelled against the icy control - scream, she told herself, fight against these brutes, show your terror to the world; it would hurt far less to respond then it would to hold in the fear and sickness.

She opened her eyes and the terrible scene flooded her vision. Mindlessly, she shrank back against the damp stone wall, but the scream would not come, locking itself in her breast.

Her helplessness strangled her. Always, there had been something she could do to help her people in the face of their fear, but this time there was noting in her thoughts but total futility. There was _nothing_ she could do!

Then hot, blood stained hands were on her, too, dragging her frigid body into a wall-like chest of chain mail, half crushing the breath from her lungs.

Though sickened by the blood smeared clothes, the fierce pale eyes assaulting her while a gnarled hand pulled hard at her coppery braid, Dawnlyn still could not cry out in terror. She was a Renfrew. If she was the only Renfrew left breathing she would not give these vicious heathens her fear to mock.

Moist lips sought her dainty neck while thee huge Viking forced her head back, tearing at her hair. She felt a dreadful moment of dizziness sweep her and a moan stuck in her throat. The cries of the other women receded, blotted out by her own agony of fear as the Norseman pressed himself against her mercilessly. And all the while she couldn't quite fir her mind around the reality of what he planned to do with her.

Then suddenly she felt his hold slacken; she gasped for air while white dots swam momentarily before her eyes. His hands finally left the soft swell of her bosom; the paralyzing panic began to ebb. Then Dawnlyn slowly became aware of a change in the atmosphere - it was quiet now save for an occasional wail from one of the women. These terrible men had, for some as yet unknown reason, ceased their attack; their attention, to a man, was riveted on the threshold of the chapel.

Pushing against her captor's chest with small white hands, Dawnlyn saw over his shoulder a huge man in the portal, so tall and broad-shouldered that his figure seemed to fill the whole entrance way.

He was their leader - even though she knew nothing of men such as this, of the fact she had no doubt, as his deep, roaring voice sounded and stilled the room into a respectful hush. Dawnlyn had never seen a man so fearful looking, as well as handsome. He fit every preconception she'd ever had about Vikings: tall, fair, savage, powerful. An alien being, covered with blood and sweat and battle soil. One big, war-scarred hand grasped his enormous broadsword - a sword that most men would need both hands to hold - and his eyes were dark pools of menace in the shadows of the chapel. His mouth was impeccably symmetrical, the lips thin, finely chiselled, but they were draw down grimly at the corners. Everything about the man shouted authority, strength, command and, to Dawnlyn, terror.

The overwhelming Viking took a step into the chapel; his keen gaze swept the room. And then he spoke again, only this time, much to her amazement, the tone of his voice was less threatening and his words were in her own tongue this time.

"Is there a Renfrew amongst you?" He demanded, his presence filling the small chapel with a terrible dominion.

Dawnlyn's tried to collect her thoughts and swallowed with difficulty. What could this Viking leader possibly want with her? She posed him no threat. Did he wish to rid himself of _all_ the Renfrews?

Again his pale steel-blue eyes traveled slowly about the chapel; there were several warriors already climbing atop weeping women who lay helplessly sprawled on the cold stone floor; Meg was sobbing convulsively, pressed against a bench, her barely developed breasts showing beneath her torn linen shift. Everywhere there was agony. Then room shimmered with the smell of sweat and blood and fear.

"Answer me!" Came the thunder of his deep voice again. "If there be a Renfrew woman among you, I demand you make yourself known, or by Odin's breath I'll see this Hall torn down stone by stone!"

Her heart squeezed in dread. She had to answer him - dear God! She couldn't weaken now!

From her place behind the Viking, still pressed against the wall, Dawnlyn tried her voice. "I am daughter of Earl Robert Renfrew…" she chocked, praying that God would grant her the courage to face this Norseman.

His steely gaze moved relentlessly to the shadows wall. "Show yourself, woman!"

Her Viking captor stepped aside with a small grumble heard only by Dawnlyn. And then she was free, facing the leader, her knees threatening to buckle at any moment while her mind screamed questions at her: why did these men want to harm her women? And what did this tall man want with her?

"I am Eric Northman, the new Jarl of St. Abb's," he growled. "I claim the women of this Hall. Come here to me, woman." He stood motionless, his legs apart, his arms folded across his substantial chest, exuding the air of command.

Suddenly a rumble rose from his men as their eyes traveled from the feared leader to the small copper-haired women. And all the while Dawnlyn cringed inwardly at his statement, "I claim the woman of this Hall."

"Come to me," he commanded again, his tone husky and forbidding.

Fear coiled in her stomach like a writhing serpent as the terrible truth came to her. The Viking wanted her…wanted to do that unspeakable thing to her. The enormity of her situation struck her with numbing force. But Dawnlyn couldn't go to him - not willingly. She shook her head slowly, barely moving her slim neck. Her tawny eyes held his unflinchingly.

"You cannot escape your fate," he taunted angrily. "Now come to me. I will have the daughter of Robert Renfrew."

Again, her heart pounding wildly, Dawnlyn shook her head. "Not in the house of my God," she whispered through trembling lips. It was as though this thought gave her courage and anchor, something to hold onto in this storm of madness.

For a brief moment his eyes turned dark, then abruptly Eric Northman tossed back his head and laughed. "Your God!" He roared. "Look about you, daughter of Robert! Whose god rules here?"

"Mine," she replied softly, feeling control embrace her. "My God is still here. He is everywhere."

They stood many yards apart, separated by musky air, by words, by a chasm that could not be bridged. The rumble of talk had ebbed. The men awaited their leader's next move with greedy impatience - how could this tiny woman dare to defy the mighty Eric Northmen? The air in the room quivered in anticipation like something alive while silence enshrouded the man and the woman.

For a moment they stood facing one another across an inviolable line she had created, and Dawnlyn thought he would kill her on the spot, so rabid was the look in those fair eyes. But he made no move in her direction.

Finally he spoke in his native tongue - evidently making sport of her. The tension eased and husky laughter arose from the men. Their eyes fell to Dawnlyn's face, lingered, and lowered to her frame lasciviously.

Dawnlyn cringed. She knew nothing of men's lust, did not even really understand why they were glaring at her body, but still she felt somehow shamed beneath their lewd regard. She lowered her eyes. She would never give in to weeping and pleading - such a response was too deeply repressed in her. She sensed he wanted to abuse her - to violate her - but she could neither beg nor submit.

Drawing his helmet from his head and tossing it to the tones with a heavy clang, Eric smiled wickedly. He began to stride toward her; his men moved from his path. With each step, Dawnlyn thought with horror, he grew a foot in height.

Then he stood over her, a giant blur of stained chain mail, a face made harsh with dirt, eyes the legendary shade of the stormy seas, unrelenting.

"Nay," she whispered, "I'd sooner kill myself…I'd rather join my father and brother before I let you -"

"Your father, your brother?" Growled Eric. "You think them dead?"

"They live?" Came her soft voice, filled suddenly with hope.

"Yes. Now yield, woman. I do not wish to cause you harm. My gut is full of battling for one day."

So great was Dawnlyn's relief over her family that tears finally slide down her pale cheeks. The Viking leader mistook them for a woman's plea for mercy, and anger flared within him. He was offering this wench a reasonable solution, a secure position - she should come to him gladly. He meant her no harm.

Reaching out, he took hold of the gold velvet robe and pulled it down off her shoulder.

Dawnlyn's eyes flashed as him in terror; she put her hands up to cover herself in the thin linen shift. "No!" She cried. "Not in the chapel…please…"

Christians! He thought in anger. She was another like his mother, herself a captured woman, a Christian. He had no time for this - his men, too, were looking on with amusement playing on their scarred faces. Damn this wench! Why wouldn't she yield?

Clenching his teeth, Eric took hold of the young girl's arm and gave her a sharp but calculated jerk bringing her up short against his rock-hard body.

Cheers rose from the men who glared longingly at her proud carriage, he high, firm breasts molded revealingly against the linen. And then slowly they turned from the sight, their eyes feasting again on their own captive women. The noise of mingled cries and grunts once again filled the chapel as their attention was diverted from their chief and his innocent, tawny-eyes captive.

Eric's gaze lingered on the unturned face of the girl, the wide hazel eyes, the springing red hair and trembling mouth. He sensed the depth of her courage and it struck a chord of respect within him.

In a last attempt to save herself, she forced her eyes to meet his. "I cannot yield. Not here. I would rather you killed me."

"Then you will yield outside this door?" He asked in a musing tone, still marvelling at her determination in the face of his strength.

Dawnlyn stood back from him, pressing herself to the wall, covering her young breasts from his eyes. She could not answer him; there was no answer to his question. She compressed her lips and stood silently.

Eric placed his hands on his hips and swept her with an insolent gaze, grumbling in his own tongue as if frustrated. She caught the word Odin.

The moment stretched out unendingly while he merely seemed to study her, making a fateful decision.

And then suddenly he moved and she gasped, feeling herself lifted high into the air and slung roughly over his broad shoulder as if she weighed no more then a fawn. When she finally caught her breath, he was carrying her aloft in the hall, up the curving tower steps.

He mind spun frantically. This pagan, this Viking warrior whose fierce looks struck terror into her very soul, had for some unknown reason given in to her plea. But why? Did it mean he understood her plight and was going to spare her?

Then they were inside the largest bed chamber and she was being lifted down from his shoulder, seemingly with more care then she had been hoisted up to the tall porch.

"Robert Renfrew's chamber?" He asked abruptly, viewing the room with curiosity.

"Yes," she murmured, fumbling with the folds of her gold robe. Perhaps, she thought, all Viking men were not like those below. Perhaps this one did not seek to do that unholy thing to her. She held the robe's neck firmly closed.

"Do not bother yourself, little one," he observed, returning his gaze to her slender frame. He nodded ominously toward the bed, then began undoing his leather belt in which was sheathed his bloody sword.

Dawnlyn felt terror suck at her innards. The tremulous hope she had held only seconds before wads dashed. If only she could convince him somehow, explain to him! "I cannot do that, that…lie with you," she stammered quickly. "I am not like the other women. I am a novice in my church. I am to wed Christ…"

"What have gods to do with this? Now disrobe." And he peeled off his chain mail shirt, dropping it in an irrevocable heap at his feet. Next came his woolen tunic, exposing the breadth of his muscular chest with its triangle of blond hair and a strange necklace. He then undid the cross garters and slide off his leather shoes while his light blue eyes never left her face.

With each departing article of clothing, Dawnlyn's heart gave a sickening lurch of horror. She had never seen a man this way. When he began to slide down his pants, she whirled away from him, crying, "No! You can't!"

His voice reached her across the room to where she had fled. "I offer you a secure position here…I shall protect you as no other can, woman. Are you daft?"

Dear God, she thought in horror, he thinks me some common maid! He doesn't understand that for me to yield to such disgrace is not possible!

"Please," she begged, hands covering her face, "I am to become a nun! If you know my language, then you know of my faith! Don't shame me!"

She felt his large hands on her shoulders, deceptively gentle, and gasped. "Take off the sift and come to bed. I will have my way with you and do not intend to discuss it. Rape is not to my liking, but if I must…"

Rape! The word he had spoken so quietly stuck in her brain, brought hideous images to mind. "I won't!" Cried Dawnlyn, knowing escape was impossible but knowing, too, that she couldn't let this happen.

When his voice came again, from behind her, it was lower, gentler in tone. "Be you a virgin?"

"I am to become a nun. I know nothing of men." Involuntarily tears glistened in her eyes. Of course she was a virgin - didn't he understand anything she told him?

"Then I will take you will care."

Take her! Ruin her! Dawnlyn's back stiffened. "How kind of you my lord," she cried in sudden defiance. "I would rather throw myself from this tower window then have you touch me, you ungodly heathen!" She heard his growl, and his hands moved from her shoulders to the back of her filmy shift.

"Do you not fear me? Do you not know that to invite the wrath of Eric Northmen is to invite doom?"

"Of course I fear you," she said bravely. "But God has given me strength to face whatever befalls me. I cannot willingly yield -"

Suddenly she felt the linen shift being torn from her back, and she shrank fearfully from him.

At the sight of her small back and tiny waist, the round, firm hips and slender legs, Eric drew a breath. "Lie beneath me willingly and I'll not mar this beauty."

Both frightened and shamed, her skin burning beneath his bold gaze, Dawnlyn quickly broke away and ran toward the bed, where she snatched up a quilt to cover her nakedness. She had never been so mortified!

Eric viewed her form for a moment, then quietly walked toward the bed. She was a beauty, her teeth bared in desperation, her coppery hair loosened from the braid, springing down to her waist in wild disarray. What little he seen of her naked flesh was enough to rob him of his senses. Yet the desire was tempered by acknowledgment of he innocence. He was no brute; it was not his way to defile innocent women. And, too, there was a purpose to this deed: it would serve him well to make the woman of the Hall his, and there was her sweet beauty…

Dawnlyn faced him - a David to his Goliath - fear and loathing spilling from her marigold eyes. She knew he would have to battle her every inch of the way and the, if he did rape her, she knew also that she would not cry out or beg for mercy.

Still, she could not quell the fear in her heart when her eyes was his masculinity. She'd seen men partially naked before - a bare chest, muscled arms or legs - but this man, this Viking warrior, was seemingly not like any other. He was tall and lightly tanned from the sun, and as muscled as a bull. Light hair prang from his chest, his forearms, his long hair was matted with dried battle sweat to his neck, making it hard to tell its true shade or texture. His features were bold and dangerous; a wide, grim mouth, a nose that reminded her of a hawk, yet not so stern as his flinty eyes, which struck a chord of fear in her.

But in spite of the awesome spectacle he presented, it was the sight of his tumescent manhood that caused her to dart for the door. She'd never dreamed a man would look this way. Her hand was reaching desperately for the latch when she felt herself being swept up into those corded arms, held against the surprisingly soft, warm skin, carried to the bed and dumped unceremoniously onto the eiderdown. Her own covering lay back at the door, unattainable.

For what seemed an eternity, she struggled uselessly against his overpowering strength while he evidently never tired of the sport. It was humiliating as she fought and scratched only to have his hand possess a breast and then squeeze a thigh. He touched her in intimate places with large, calloused hands; his eyes burned a leisurely path over her naked body. And all the while, she couldn't fathom why one human being would want to do this to another. What would he gain from hurting her, from seeing her reduced to abject degradation?

Dawnlyn shrieked and kicked, fighting him, but to no avail. Slowly, as her physical strength began to wane, she sensed that he was playing with her, waiting for her to tire and relent.

But that she would never do!

It came to her, when strength was nearly exhausted, that somehow this kicking and scratching was exactly what he would expect her to do. Then, when she was so weak she could no longer fight him, he must think she would yield like a shrinking rabbit.

Suddenly she ceased the struggle. Her hair was pinned under her arms, which he held over her head, her eyes flashed boldly like golden spikes, her flesh was covered in a glistening sheen of perspiration. With her heart thudding wildly, her chest heaving with effort, she hissed, "Go ahead, you pagan, I'll not play your game. And when you're done," she rasped breathlessly, "you'll not have even touched me. My God will protect me and it will be like this never happened."

"Damn you," he muttered abruptly, his hand twisted in her hair, pulling her head back until their eyes met. While his legs still pinned hers to the quilt, he realized where he had heard those words before. "My God will protect me…" - they were his own mother's words!

Oddly angered by his thoughts, his mouth descended onto hers cruelly, but there was no pleasure in it now. What was there about these ardent Christian women that forged their morals with chains of iron? Why? How would it hurt this copper-haired woman to accept him?

He brought his head up sharply, his face lingering over hers "Damn it!" He growled, "show me something! How can you just lie here like _this_ and feel nothing?"

"Use my flesh as you will," she breathed, "but you'll get nothing from me. In my soul I can never yield."

Eric's body stiffened above her while his hand twisted again in her hair. "I have fought hard this day…journeyed across a sea! I am weary and angry and ache of relief…"

"Relief for you!" She bit out. "For me it is assault! Why do you want to harm me?"

"To pleasure myself!" He roared. "By thunder, woman, I am only human!"

"And I am a person, too!" She cried. "There can be no pleasure in this for you! Simply because you are stronger then me…" Her molten copper eyes flashed up into his then, and Eric was suddenly swept by the truth of this young girl's words. She had a storehouse of courage that strangely overwhelmed him. Of course he could force her…And yet, the quality of her courage was beyond his experience. Other women wailed, the yielded, but this one was as steadfast as stone.

And Eric knew, then, that her defiance and strength were undermining his resolve. He wanted her, wanted to reap a response from those tender lips, but what pleasure was there in overwhelming this small woman with mere physical strength? What did that prove?

Angry, frustrated, he sat up abruptly, running an agitated hand through his rumpled hair. With grim lines grooved deeply in his cheeks, he pushed himself from the bed and strode to where her shift lay.

Throwing it to her with exaggerated insouciance, he said, "Here, cover yourself so that your charms have no effect on my brutish urges." His words were bitter and sarcastic. He pulled on his trousers and turned to face the girl as she struggled into her torn shift with great haste. "I suppose you consider yourself saved from a fate worse then death, don't you, girl?" Then, as her uncertain silence hung between them, "Well? Answer me! You were as full of words as a law speaker not so long ago!"

"Yes…no…I don't know how to answer you. I an afraid you will be angry no matter what I say." Her voice was soft and shaking, and he had to strain to hear her.

"The truth, little one! With me the truth will serve you best."

"Then I will tell you. I do feel fortunate. Thank you for sparing me." Her eyes met his, begged for understanding with an eloquence that squeezed his heart.

"Ah! You cold Scots have ice water in your veins. I would have had little pleasure from your skinny bones in any case." He saw her body stiffen with unbidden shock and felt a spurt of childish satisfaction. Then it struck him. "By Odin! I do not even know your name."

Her eyes narrowed. "My name is Lady Dawnlyn Renfrew and that you cannot take from me so easily."

Eric tossed back his head suddenly and laughed. "A wondrous creature you are! In my land you would be cast into a peat bog for witchcraft, for I believe you have put a spell on me!" While he merely gazed at her, his anger apparently abated, Dawnlyn suddenly realized that she had no idea whatsoever why he had spared her. Still, she was immensely grateful and she thanked God for hearing her prayers.

"You look well pleased with yourself." He said, and she thought: there is no pleasure in what I feel, quite the contrary. He had stripped her of her clothes, touched her intimately in places no man had ever even seen, much less fondled! May, it was far from pleasure she was feeling. Degraded, soiled, confused - those were the things that weighed on her mind now.

He walked slowly toward the bed, still eyeing her in a bemused way. "This victory of the flesh I cede to you, Lady Dawnlyn," he said pensively. "but this is only the first battle between us, I think. There will be more…"

"I do not seek to battle with you, Eric Northmen," she threw back at him, her chin held high. "I am to become a nun, and I ask of you to respect my position. You cannot have my flesh or my soul, for I an given to another…"

"Your God," he stated flatly; then his mouth turned down at the corners in a dark frown. "I should throw you to my wolves below, Dawnlyn Renfrew…let them take their sport with you. Yes," he taunted, "perhaps I shall. It would temper your steel."

Was he serious? Did all men wish to do this thing so much? She wondered dismally, fear creeping into her heart once more.

Seeing how her eyes had grown wide again, Eric laughed knowledgeably. "Now go fetch me water for a bath and stir the flames in the hearth, for I want to soothe my sore muscles."

It was an abrupt dismissal, as if he'd had enough of women and their follies. She realized that he had purposely tried to frighten her once more. "And fetch me mead and food while I rest," Eric said, insultingly, stretching himself out on the bed with lithe, catlike arrogance.

Was he mad? What game was this he played? Didn't he know she would escape him now?

Realizing that she truly was free to leave the chamber, willing herself to think no more for the moment about what might still be done to her, she donned her robe and left the room quickly, glad to be gone from his sight.

She crept down the long, curving steps and through the great hall where the Viking men slept or drank her family's ale. Several of the women were still being pawed, others sat hunched in the far corners, weeping hysterically. To Dawnlyn's eyes the scene was a mad charade. She searched the hall for Meg, then spotted her in a corner, curled up into a fetal ball. She strode purposefully toward her.

Dawnlyn shook the girl's arm. "Are you all right?"

"I think so," came the girl's trembling reply. "the brute has done with me and sought another."

"Then try not to weep…the worst is over. Now come, we must make haste." Dawnlyn helped the girl to her feet. "We are all captives together, Meg. We must be strong and accept this fate as best we can." Dawnlyn let the girl down a corridor and stood at the narrow steps to the dungeon.

"Nay!" Meg wailed. "I cannot go down there!"

Dawnlyn shook her head in exasperation. "Then I shall."

But she was stopped at the bottom of the cold stone steps by a fierce Viking guard. She tried to make him understand that her father was down there, that she had to see him, but the man stood in her path like an impregnable wall and refused to understand her.

Finally, at her wit's end, she called through the dimness, "Father! Are you there?" Moaning reached her ears from below; she steeled herself. "Father! It is Dawnlyn."

"Dawnlyn!" Robert's voice finally echoed up through the murk to reach her.

"Are you all right, Father?" Her heart throbbed hopefully.

"Aye, aye. But Ian's hurt and we need bandages, water. Can you help us, lass?"

And then she knew with utter clarity that she couldn't escape immediately to Coldingham, to the nunnery. She had to help the wounded, see to Ian and her father first. Later, later she would escape… "I'll return," she called, then retraced her path back up the dark stairwell. But, she realized suddenly, to help them meant to go back to that frightening Eric, the leader. Would he allow her to aid them? Most likely he wouldn't't care if her father and brother rotted in the dungeon. Yet duty beckoned, refusing to release her.

Dawnlyn instructed Meg to fetch Eric his water and heat it on the hearth. She went for the mead and a roasted chicken - a serving wench now, herself. But, she told herself sternly, she would have to do his bidding with a minimum of rebellion if she wanted to help her kinsmen.

Before returning to her father's quarters, she stopped at her own chamber to change into a soft green velvet gown, which was roped loosely at the waist with a silken cord. Somehow the clean gown next to her skin felt safe and secure; she put from her mind again the fact of her position here. Seen she would flee to Coldingham - flee and forget in the embrace of her God. But first, she had her duty…


	5. Fenris, The Giant Wolf

Meg, although trembling from head to toe, was already pouring warm water into the wooden tub when Dawnlyn arrived. Eric was sitting naked on the side of the bed, a quilt barley covering his manhood, his long, muscular legs, covered with curling blond hairs, stretched comfortably out in front of him. His back was to Dawnlyn and she saw a narrow white scar running from the thick muscle of his shoulder blade down in an arc, ending near his tapered waist. Inadvertently, she wish the stroke of the blade had finished him off, then just as quickly she put the unholy thought from her mind.

"Ah," he said lazily, "there you are. I was near ready to send someone to fetch you back."

Dawnlyn ignored him, placing the flagon and chicken on a rough-hewn wooden table next to the bed. When she came near him, he gave her soft rump a healthy slap and quickly she turned, glaring into his amused, heavy-lidded eyes.

Chuckling, Eric rose, dropping the quilt, and spun Dawnlyn into his arms, nearly knocking her breath out when her breasts slammed against the obdurate wall of his chest. His lips descended onto hers in a demanding, searing kiss, and she steeled herself for the inevitable pain; but somehow his lips did not hurt her. Instead, they pressed hers with a kind of tender possessiveness that sent a strange thrill of faintness through her. She fought the feeling. Then just as swiftly he released her, causing her to stumble back against the bed.

She drew the full sleeve of her velvet gown across her mouth. "You pagan!" She hissed, wondering how she would ever keep up a civil front. The man seemed to goad her deliberately.

Ignoring her now, Eric went naked, unashamedly, to the half-full tub and lowered himself into its warmth. "Bring me my food," he commanded.

Anger spurted dangerously within her and she hesitated.

"Have it as you will, Dawnlyn," he said, his eyes narrowed. "But if I have to rise from this comfort, then I shall take my wrath out on your flesh. Do you want a beating?"

Grasping at control, humiliated beyond bearing that Meg had heard his rude words, Dawnlyn carried his food and mead over to the tub while Meg, terrified, dragged the table over, too.

"Be gone!" He ordered of Meg. "Your fair lady is quite capable of seeing to my needs."

And Dawnlyn did, furious at his taunts, unable to keep herself from giving some of her own back when he forced her to scrub his neck and hair. Yet as her hands worked lather unwillingly over his flesh she could not help but be amazed at his powerful build, and thoughts kept crowding her mind of that same body, only a short while ago, lying on top of her, pinning her to the quilts, those large, calloused hands touching her so intimately. Yet, strangely, he had not marked her flesh nor truly harmed her in any way…

A hot flush stained her cheeks a fiery crimson.

"What causes your sudden colour?" Observed Eric, smirking.

Dawnlyn narrowed titled eyes, scrubbing at his back, letting her nails, as if by accident, leave long red marks on the tanned skin. "Thoughts of your proximity, _great_ Viking. Thoughts of how close I came to losing my virtue."

"Your ignorance is laughable. I would have done you a favour, if you'd the sense to see it," he said matter-of-factly.

She ignored his words, afraid to arouse his temper. She sought for a new topic, to turn his mind from her remarks. Her fingers caught in the strange necklace of white, glistening objects that lay on his smooth, muscled chest. "Your teeth?" She gibed, but knew they weren't, as his were white and healthy and quite obviously still in his mouth.

Eric chuckled deeply, relieving her anxiety, then he ordered her to bring him a sharp shaving blade so that he might scrape his whiskers. He was the only clean shaven Viking she had seen, and she guessed it must set him apart from his warriors. She even offered to shave him herself.

"Nay!" He laughed easily. "Do you think me mad?"

As he scraped away the light-coloured whiskers, Dawnlyn saw another scar marring his chin. It appeared that a sword must have glanced off the jawbone in some long ago battle. His body, she saw, was a map of campaigns, and she wondered suddenly about his past life.

"Have you reached forty years?" She asked unthinkingly, studying the light crinkled lines around his bright blue eyes. And abruptly she realized that she had just spoken to him civilly as if he were an honourable guest in the Hall.

"No. My years are thirty-two. And you, Dawnlyn?"

"I am nineteen summers," she replied, still amazed at the turn of their conversation. Why, they could have been two ordinary people exchanging civilities.

"You should already be wed. Perhaps it is your rash tongue that keeps you single." But the tone of his voice was light, almost playful.

"I am to be wed to my church."

"I know of your ways. They are foolish. A woman belongs with a man, bearing his children." He tossed aside the blade, drank thirstily from the flagon, then rubbed soap over his face and asked for rinsing water.

It was a good thing he could not see her face just then, Dawnlyn thought, because surly her drawn brows and tight lips would have given away her anger at his thoughtless words. She reached deep within and struggled for control. She knew instinctively that to best this man who had total power over her, she could not give way to the anger she felt.

Dawnlyn took a deep breath as she fetched the water and began pouring it over his hair, his strong neck and powerful shoulders. She would try once again to reach this barbarian, to make him understand her plight. He did not seem unintelligent. Maybe she could convince him to let her go to Coldingham freely. "A nun is afforded much freedom and power…power that a woman married with babes suckling each year is denied."

"And you desire power, little one?"

"My due measure. All my life I have been raised and tutored toward one goal. I am not a meek lamb."

"You need not tell me," he mused.

Curiosity besting her now, Dawnlyn touched the necklace. "Why do you wear this…this thing?"

"This thing is a necklace of the teeth of Fenris, the Giant Wolf. It is my talisman and my luck." He touched it with his long fingers, a lazy, slanted smile carved on his wide mouth.

"Fenris? A giant wolf? Surly you jest."

He turned on her his icy blue glance full of roguish laughter and mock anger. "No one has dared to question my take before," he said, and edge of humour barely concealed in his voice.

"What tale? Faith, you Vikings have strange customs."

"Shall I tell you the story? It is very impressive and full of Norse magic. It has been told and retold or nearly three decades now." His eyes glinted a kind of challenge at her.

"Yes, tell me. Then I will know better what kind of man has conquered my home."

Eric settled back in the tub, his humour fading now, a faraway look in his eyes. "It happened when I was but a lad of seven. I wandered away into the dark forest, playing with my wooden sword. I played at being a fierce warrior, slashing a twig here, a flower there. Suddenly the wood was silent and there I was - alone - surrounded by a pack of fierce, blood-hungry wolves and Fenris, the Giant Wolf, Bone Gnasher, their leader." He paused the, eyeing Dawnlyn carefully for a moment. Then he said of Fenris, "His tongue lolled out, dripping, and his red eyes met mine. He was taller then I and very, very hungry. He growled, deep in his shaggy throat."

"What happened?" Burst from her lips. Her tawny eyes were wide with expectation.

A smile so slight that it went unnoticed touched Eric's lips; he went on. "I was terrified. You can imagine. But the sons of mighty King Ulfrik were taught courage with the first sip of their mother's milk, and so I stood staunchly, raised my little wooden sword…" Here he paused, the consummate storyteller.

"Yes?"

"And the glistening white fangs of Fenris fell at my feet like harmless pebbles, and he slunk away into the tall spruces with his deadly pack. I was left with these." Again, his fingers caressed the necklace.

Dawnlyn's eyes followed his fingers as if mesmerized, studied the white things that hung around his neck. They did look like teeth…

Then reality struck her and she glanced up abruptly to meet Eric's droll gaze. "You mock me," she said stiffly, embarrassed to have been so gullible.

With that, he laughed heartily. "And your stories? This man, Moses, who parted the Red Sea waters. Am I to believe such a farfetched tale? I've been to the Red Sea and it appeared quite intact to me." His tone was light, bantering.

Dawnlyn was struck mute. How did this pagan know of her faith? And what did he mean, he had been to the Red Sea? And how could he joke about the story of Moses?

Tight-lipped, she walked toward the small window overlooking the headland far below. Eric dressed in a clean, brown wool tunic, forgoing the shirt of chain mail. When she finally turned around to face him, she was taken aback by his change of appearance.

Now that he was washed and his hair no longer matted from the helmet, she saw him quite differently. The strong hard features were the same; lean carved chin, thin lips, generous nose and pale blue eyes. But the cleansing had lent him a more civilized look and his hair was now the colour of light honey, thick and unruly, hanging in light waves just above his shoulders, quite different from the Scots, who kept theirs chopped close to the head. He was a very handsome man, Viking or not, she acknowledged.

"What are you glaring at woman?" He asked, sheathing his heavy sword in the leather belt.

"Your hair. Why do you not trim it?"

Eric laughed again, proudly. "We Norsemen have golden hair and are pleased to show the world," he bragged. "have you not noticed out fair colour and great height?"

"Yes," she mused aloud, "there are none quite like you."

Eric strode toward her, picked up a cascading lock of her copper hair. "Although not at all fair," he observed, "your hair is the colour of maple leaves in autumn. It is quite rare. And your eyes" - he tipped he head back to view them better - "your eyes are nearly the same hue. 'Tis amazing, the effect…"

Unbidden, Dawnlyn's breath stopped in her throat. Swept by uncertainty, she spun away. "Eric, I must gather linen and water and see to our wounded." She spoke hastily, moving toward the door. "Will you tell the sentry to let me pass?"

"What!?" He exploded.

"My brother is wounded and so are many others…"

"How can you know that?" He thrust his arms across his wide chest, waiting impatiently.

"I…I was there to see them."

"By Odin!" He roared. "Do you not realize the danger you placed yourself in? I'll have the guard's head for this!"

"If you wish," she said mildly. "but he did not let me see them. He only let me call out for a moment."

Eric's eyes were a deep blue now, storming with fury. Quickly Dawnlyn undid the latch. "I will go to my family. I will!"

"You won't. You cannot possibly think I'll relent on this, too…" But his words were lost in the empty room as Dawnlyn quietly slipped down the dark corridor.

Eric stood alone, thunderstruck, his grim mouth hanging open in mute disbelief.


	6. There's No Escape

Dawnlyn was sure his heavy hand would come down upon her shoulder at any moment. It was utterly unnerving to keep walking, head held high, away from the room. But she did it, even though thrills of fear ran up her spine; and his hand never stopped her nor did he call on his men to restrain her.

Slowly, then tension ebbed from her body as she made her way back down the damp-walled steps towards the barred door of the dungeon. But even before she reached it, she knew the sentry was there, as an oil lamp cast weird, flickering shadows around the final curve of the stairs.

She made up her mind, took a deep breath and descended the last few steps, rounded the corner.

"I must see to the wounded men," she said, hoping he could understand her, hoping her voice sounded sufficiently authoritative.

The sentinel had been well supplied with food and drink for his lonely vigil. He wiped the froth of ale from his beard and stared at her. She could see he was half drunk. She'd have to be careful.

"I am the lady of this Hall. I have the authority." She made her voice sound forceful, took a step forward, but the guard narrowed his eyes and moved in front of her, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword threateningly. She tried to speak to him in the few words of Norse she knew, but none of the words fit together properly. "Let me pass," she finally managed in his tongue.

"Nay." His voice was rough.

"I _will_ see them!" She cried, frustrated beyond measure. She juvenilely stamped her foot in anger. "They're hurt. I must help them. You big, bloody fool! Cruel, heathen barbarian!" Her temper rose, shattering whatever calm she had managed to retain up to now. She could hear moans of pain beyond the barred door. Panic rose in her breast; she fought it down, but it threatened to choke her. She _had_ to get to her father, to Ian, to all of them!

The sentry eyed her coldly, shook his head again. All the pent-up pain and fury of the day burst in her veins. Somewhere, deep in her consciousness, she was aware that the man was merely following orders, that she was no longer mistress in this Hall, that she was conquered, her family ruined, that Eric was behind their ruination and he should pay. But the heavy-shouldered man before her bore the brunt of her present rage.

Seeing only Eric's visage, she launched herself at the guard, beating with small fists against the rock wall of his chest, crying, shouting unintelligently.

Pain and terror and hysteria drove her on, heedless of her danger. But it was all over in a moment; the huge man laughed harshly and grabbed her arms, pinning her wrists together with one ham-like hand, then threw her aside effortlessly.

Dawnlyn lay in a heap on the cold, damp stone floor, her chest heaving with effort. Sudden logic flooded her as she lay there: force was useless. She had to be more clever then these brutes to get her way.

Silently she rose and ascended the stairs to the great hall were dozens of the Vikings ate St. Abb's food, drank the ale, fondled the women, all the while roaring with coarse laughter. Never had Dawnlyn heard such a racket within these walls; the dour Scots never designed to laugh so freely or so loudly.

She looked around cautiously, not even certain of what she was searching for - someone to help her.

But in this foreign, boisterous army, there was not one she knew, or could trust, or could even talk to.

"My lady, you look lost. Do you search for Eric?" An unknown voice, accented but intelligible, sounded in her ear. She whirled, startled.

A tall young Viking faced her, fair as the others, but clean shaven except for a blond goatee, cut short to his chin. He looked quite civilized, having obviously cleaned himself and donned clothes not stained by the battle. He eyed her, half amused, half appreciative. "Do you search for Eric?" He repeated.

So they all must assume that _thing_ had occurred between her and Eric. Hot shame burned her face. "No!" She said, too loudly. "I'm trying to get to the wounded men in the dungeon. Surly your esteemed leader wished them to live so they can swell the ranks of his subjects." Her voice rang with scorn. "And the _beast_ on watch will not let me by!"

Laughter flickered in the young man's deep set blue eyes for a speck of time. Dawnlyn fought down her anger once more. "He has orders, my lady," he said softly.

"Orders!"

"Yes, Eric's orders. He'd be executed if he allowed you past. However, we shall see if something cannot be done. Allow me to introduce myself. I Sven Ivarson, Eric's lieutenant." Then Sven eyed her more soberly. "I can hardly believe Eric would allow you to roam about so freely. The battle mood it still within the men."

Dawnlyn met his words with silence.

"Does Eric know where you are? Does he know you wish to go to the dungeon?"

"He knows," she said finally, "I told him."

"I see," replied Sven pensively, studying her. He sensed the defiant streak in this softly beautiful girl and thought that it was no wonder at all Eric let her have her way - what man could resist the combination of calm fortitude and such innocent, golden beauty?

Dawnlyn felt suddenly unnerved by this man's close scrutiny. "My men need help," she explained desperately. "I see that you do not neglect your own!" She gestured at the wounded Vikings, lying on pallets in front of the hearth, bandaged, propped up on cushions, most joking and laughing and drinking as heartily as their uninjured companions.

"Patience," said Sven. "I will send a message to Eric and we'll see what develops. Pray be seated while we wait, my lady, and share a cup of cider with me."

He called for quill and parchment and wrote, then sent a young servant wench aloft with it.

Dawnlyn seated herself stiffly on the wooden bench to wait. Sven sat casually next to her, poured cider into a cup for her, took his own flagon of ale.

"You know how to write," Dawnlyn remarked haughtily.

"Yes, and cipher, too. I was raised with Eric, his older brother and their mother's priest taught us as boys." His glance was tinged with humour.

"A priest! But I thought…"

"Norway is a Christian land now and has been for nearly a hundred years. At least _some_ of Norway is. There are those who prefer the old ways, and some who combine the two and seem quite content."

"And you speak our language?"

"Again, the priest…"

"Unfortunately, your chief, Eric, did not learn so much." Her voice was tight and hard, filled with smugness.

"There you are wrong, my lady. He learned more then I and was a far better pupil."

She turned to him in amazement. That barbarian upstairs! And then the girl returned, handed the rolled parchment to Sven, back away wearily.

"Ah," said Sven, "he allows you to treat your men. I rather thought he might. Gather what you will need and I will see you safely below to the dungeon."

Quickly, bore Sven could change his mind, Dawnlyn gathered a great bundle of food and a keg o water, then ordered one of the hall women to bring clean linen and the chest of herbs left by her mother.

When all was ready, Sven carried a torch and led the way down the dungeon steps, where he spoke to the sentry and showed him Eric's mark on the parchment.

Regally, Dawnlyn swept by the huge Viking, disdaining to meet his eyes as he opened the barred door. The girl, Mary, who carried the basket of cloths, was terrified, whimpering with fear in the cold, dank chamber that wept with the moisture of the ground and surrounded it. The low loans of in imprisoned men made Mary's eyes grow wilder with fear.

"Mary, you may return to the hall. I'll see to them myself. Go on, now," said Dawnlyn wearily. The girl would probably be of no help anyway.

"I shall leave you the light, my lady," said Sven. "The sentry has his orders. He will unlock the door when you ask. Will you be long?" He asked, impervious to the sense of misery around them.

"Probably, yes," answered Dawnlyn distractedly. She was trying to see into the gloom of the dungeon. Terrible odours and sounds assaulted her senses. The heavy door clanged shut behind her, making her nerves jump with fright.

"Father?" She called tentatively.

"Dawnlyn! You've come." Robert's voice was weak. It came from across the echoing room, muffled by cold and damp and endlessly thick, dripping walls.

Raising the torch, Dawnlyn searched the dim room. There he was, trying to stand up against the far wall, blinking at the light of the torch.

Dawnlyn stuck the torch in a leather wall sconce, crossed to her father, embraced him, felt herself enfolded by his arms as she had been so many times as a child. His hand stroked her hair. She swallowed a lump in her throat, desperately blinked back hot tears. Her father was worse off then she; he needed none of her problems to add to his own.

"I promised I'd come back," she whispered. "I brought food and water and bandages. How fares Ian?"

"Half out of his mind with rage. You know your brother. He has a nasty gash on his head that keeps bleeding. He's a bit dizzy, but he'll survive, lass. How'd you manage to get in here? I heard you earlier…"

"I managed," she said tightly.

"Are you…alright, Dawnlyn?" Her father's tone left no doubt as to what he meant.

"I'm fine," she said hastily, unable to meet his searching gaze. "I am unhurt."

Robert was silent, knowing his daughter well enough, recognizing all the small signs of her ordeal. He sighed. At least she showed no signs of a beating. He was powerless to help her now; she'd have to be strong enough to face it on her own.

Dawnlyn busied herself with the men, treating the most seriously wounded first, holding her stomach from emptying on the dank floor by pure fortitude. There were, fortunately, only a few serious wounds, the rest mainly cutes that needed cleaning and stitching, broken bones that had to be set, bruises, cracked heads, broken noses and teeth. Her main problem was not treating the men but the difficulty of seeing their wounds in the murky light. One man had a stomach wound that she knew would be fatal; she made him as comfortable as she could. There was nothing to be done.

All the time she worked, the men spoke softly, thanking her, asking after her and speculating on what the Vikings meant to do with them. She could not answer them, except to say, "This Eric Northmen means to be the new laird. He would have us believe that he wishes peace. But whether or not he can be trusted, I have no idea."

Finally, Ian let her treat his wound, having made her tend to all the others first.

"It's nothing," he insisted.

But Dawnlyn, straining to see, cleaned the cut, snipping away the blood-clotted hair from its edges with her sharpest scissors, and put in several neat stitches while Ian cursed loudly at the needle pricks.

The men were eating ravenously and drinking the water. It had been a long, painful twelve hours or more since they'd fought. They'd lost their keep, their places in society, some even their women, all on this day. They were reduced to no more then the rats with whom they shared their rotting quarters. But still, rats must survive…

"Will he kill us?" Ian's voice reached through the darkness, disembodied.

"No, I don't think so," she answered. "He'd have done it by now, I should imagine. He no doubt wants men to follow him."

A collective sigh of relief rose from the shadowed figures around her. What if she were wrong? Did she have the right to give them hope if it was to be dashed?

Robert gestured Dawnlyn to a corner of the chamber; a black shadow darted across the ground as they made their way there. Dawnlyn shuddered, wondering for how long she could keep up this calm façade.

"Lass, tell me the truth. What's he done to you?"

Her glance fell away. "Nothing I can't bear. Don't worry about me. I think he means to keep me here, but I'll find a way to escape. I'll go to Coldingham and be finished with him."

Dawnlyn's voice was changed somehow; her father recognized a new tone, a new hardness beyond her normal maturity. And yet, this was no defeated woman. No matter what the heathen had done to his daughter, she still had her pride and her courage and even her wits about her.

"My poor lass, I've failed you, all of you. Never in two hundred and fifty years have the Vikings been able to take St. Abb's. It's a terrible thing to be defeated, maybe even worse for you…" Robert's voice was filled with unquenchable sorrow.

"No, Father. It wasn't your fault. I've never seen anything like them. They're like animals…"

"But in the battle they're the cleverest, they pride themselves on it, outwitting their foes time and time again. Oh, well, it doesn't matter anymore. We must accept this burden God's laid on us."

"Not God! The Vikings laid the burden on us." Her words slashed the damp air like a flame. "Don't blame this on our Lord!"

"Dawnlyn, hear me. If this man, this Eric, wants you" - he ignored the way she adverted her face from his the - "you'll have to stay with him…"

"No!" She interrupted. "I'll see that you're all well and then I'll return to Coldingham. I'll hide there!"

"My child, you must stay here with him. I know it's hard to accept, but think: you're the only Renfrew left to see to the Hall, to take care of the people. They'll all look to you now. I can't help from this accursed hole in the earth. Don't you see? It's your responsibility as a Renfrew. And you can't leave it. These men would have died tonight but for you. You have always been so strong and done your duty." His words were low and Dawnlyn had to strain to hear, but they fell on her wars with the ring of terrible but unalterable truth.

There was no escape for her - nowhere to run. All those long years spent in preperation and now there would be no gentle life as a nun. Tears welled in her eyes. She brushed them away relentlessly.

"I fear there is still more, lass. You're a beautiful woman. Any man would want you. Aye, I know it's a terrible thing for you. But for your protection, and for ours, think of my words: you must get this Viking to marry you, if you can." He went on, overriding her gasp of shock. "He'll have you anyway," his voice grew hard, "if he hasn't already. Face the truth. It you're his wedded wife, you'll have his protection and be able to help us all that much more. And if there are children from this man," - this time he had to stop for a while, give his poor, innocent child a chance to assimilate this burdensome revelation - "they will at least be legitimate heirs to St. Abb's. They will be Renfrews."

Dawnlyn was till; only her eyes revealed the tumult that threatened to engulf her. Children! She hadn't thought of that, hadn't had time to even consider that awful possibility. No, she had been born to be a nun, it couldn't happen to her…

Robert's hand reached out to rest on her shoulder. "I know, it's hard to accept. But, lass, there's no escape. So you must like the best way you can under their power. Unfortunately for you, that's as a _married_ woman. Think on it, Dawnlyn…you've always been a sober-minded, dutiful girl…"


	7. Thou Shalt Not Kill

She'd had the rest of the endless night to think on it. Not wanting to upset her father any more, she hadn't argued with him, nor had she allowed him to see how shocked she'd been by his cold assessment of her situation. Surly he didn't _really_ mean for her to enter into holy wedlock with this crude Viking, this foreign stranger. But when she thought back on his harsh words, she was afraid that his solution was best for everyone. But, to _marry_ that crude Viking? My dear Lord, she prayed, could she bear it? Was there no escape? How could a person's whole life be turned upside down so quickly, so savagely?

A terrible, bleak loneliness swept over her - she didn't want to marry. She wanted to be a nun, and she's never even imagined another existence. She'd never be able to cope! Still, the decision had to be made now, instantly; there was no time for prolonged thought, or prayer, not time, even, for a decent interval of mourning. The shock hadn't even worn off.

She wandered the cold dark corridors of the tower, seeing and hearing things that had never existed in the Hall before. It was as if she were a wraith, doomed forever to wander with no place to rest, no sanctuary. Desolation ate at her like a sharp-beaked vulture.

Eventually, she tried to find a chamber in which to sleep,. But they were all taken by Vikings who snored or mounted women uncaringly as she pushed the doors open.

Eric was nowhere to be seen, neither in the great hall with the ribald Vikings nor in the dark passages. She could only assume he'd retired already and prayed that he had no more interest in her…tonight. At first it had amazed her that she had noticed the armed sentries at every door, the many fierce eyes that followed her every movement. And she knew then that they followed Eric's orders to the letter: she was to be allowed the freedom of the tower and Eric's so-called protection, but there would be no escape.

In her mind's eye an image formed, a terrible, frightening image that chilled her to the bone: the legendary Viking leader as a deadly spider crouching placidly at the center of his web, waiting, ever conscious of all movement in his realm, aware even of the slightest stirring of the farthest one of his intricately woven silk strands. Dawnlyn felt the prickly web surround her - she was trapped, hopelessly entangled in Eric's net.

Exhausted after the hours spent under unbearable tension, the fear, she now sought only peace to rest, to lay her head. Her muscles seemed to tremble uncontrollably from tiredness; tears were agonizingly close to the surface as she wandered the Hall of which she'd once been the proud and honoured daughter.

Then she realized dismally that there was no place for her but one - the master chamber where she had last seem Eric. Even though she couldn't bear the thought of willingly going near him again, plain exhaustion overruled her qualms. Perhaps he wasn't there at all…

Quiet as a mouse, she pushed open the door and peeked in. Eric was indeed there and lay sprawled on the big bed, his long, naked limbs entangled in the eiderdown. She held her breath, praying he would not awaken, but he slept heavily, an empty flagon of ale on its side next to the bed.

His clothes were flung helter-skelter on the floor, and, as her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, she saw his heavy sword lying by his side on the coverlet.

Such overwhelming arrogance these Vikings had! To sleep, unguarded, while occupying an enemy keep. She slipped up to the bed, reached a hand out to touch the steel of the sword. Its cold whisper thrilled her. Suddenly she imagined herself lifting it, burying it deep in this man, the stranger who had taken from her so much she held dear. A sheen of moisture covered her brow; her fingers caressed the sword lovingly, sensually. She pictured him lying in his own blood, his flinty eyes meeting hers for a split second before the life left them, knowing she'd won.

Her eyes shifted to his body, so long, endlessly long, lying there on her father's bed. And so relaxed. The broad shoulders that rippled with muscle, the long, graceful arms, corded with iron strength, the fair barley there, curling hairs on the chest that rose and fell gently. Then his face, closed and different in sleep, deceptively innocent, a slight frown clouding his brow.

He was a handsome man, she hated to admit it, but handsome only in repose. In action, he was cruel as Lucifer, a heathen who would undoubting lake her as if she were no more then a brood mare.

She could kill him now. She_ should_ kill him.

But the heat of her intent ebbed. The sword was too heavy to lift, and even if she could lift it, he'd wake and wrest it from her. And, too, there was her gentle Christ, who taught "thou shalt not kill." It was not feasible.

Leaving him to his ill-earned sleep, Dawnlyn found a woolen cloak, wrapped it around her and curled up in her father's big chair.

Sometimes, along, so very alone in the fragile hours of the dawning, she finally slept.


	8. A Proposal

Dawnlyn awakened the next morning sensing that something had happened within her during the course of the night. She opened her yes finally, her head filled with the knowledge of what she had to do, recognizing the ultimate wisdom of her father's advice. She could not be selfish or undisciplined. She still longed to be a nun, but first she was a Renfrew. She had been educated and filled with pride in herself and her family. It would not do for her to run, hiding from her duty, from _him_. She had been taught to face life, to accept and deal with problems, not to hide under the covers like a child and cry.

She wondered, for a moment, from whence had come this inner strength; was it truly because of her upbringing within the church, her lack of youthful folly, or had she been born with the strength to face reality squarely?

She felt cold and cramped from sleeping in the hard chair. Glancing over to the bed, she saw Eric stretch, then sir up and shake his head as if to clear it. A cold clutch of fear grabbed at her heart. Then desolation washed over her - the man was an utter stranger, a barbarian. And she was to be his woman…his wife? _Belong_ to him? Let him use her body in that awful way? How could this be happening to her? How could her gentle Lord _let_ this happen to her?

Then, as if reading her thoughts, Eric looked over at her, his eyes bleary and red and dimmed by overindulgence.

"You wasted half of a comfortable bed," he growled out. He ran a hand through his tousled, dark blond hair and winced.

"You were as drunk as a pig, my lord," Dawnlyn said sarcastically, "and I had no wish to be near you."

"Then why didn't you simply continue to wander about aimlessly or sleep in that dark hole with your men folk?" He taunted. "Or did the rats put you off?"

"Better the rats, my lord," she bit out, "than you." But as soon as she saw the murderous scowl come to his face, she wished she hadn't spoken so hastily. She curled up into the chair as if for protection.

Eric studied her for a moment; slowly the scowl softened. "Woman have no sense," he remarked offhandedly, dismissing her with a glance.

"No sense?" She repeated, suddenly angry, but then remembered that she mustn't goad him into a rage - too many lives dear to her were held in his hands. "I do not wish to quarrel," she said, holding in her irritation.

"Nor do I. There is much to be done here this day, and my life would be far easier if you would be biddable, Dawnlyn."

"I shall do my best," she replied sincerely now. "But before you see to your work, there is something I wish to ask you, my lord." She uncurled her slender frame from the chair and sat straight backed, her gaze holding his with a pride that cost her much.

"Ask, Dawnlyn, but come to the point quickly woman, for I do not cherish female word games."

"Yes, my lord, I'll be brief and to the point. I wish for you to…to marry me." Her eyes fell away at the sight of his raised brow. She swallowed hard. "As the lady…former lady…of this Hall, I ask to be treated fairly. I believe a marriage between us would serve both Scots and Vikings alike."

Eric's expression remained closed for an endless moment. Finally he spoke. "Well said, Lady Dawnlyn. And there is some wisdom in your words." And then he smiled. "But I have long since considered such an arrangement and concluded that, at this present time, I am far too involved to think on a marriage." He swung his long legs over the side of the bed, stood and stretched as if to dismiss her.

Heat rose to her cheeks and Dawnlyn quickly averted her gaze from his nakedness; her heart pounding slow drumbeats in her breast as he went to the washstand and she could hear water splashing.

She took a deep breath. "Because you have chosen to remain unwed up until now does not mean that you cannot change your mind. There must be a betrothal between us," she finished far more confidently then she felt.

Eric's head was raised over the basin, water dripping from his hair, splashing back into the pewter vessel in tiny rivulets. He straightened slowly. His face wore an almost comical expression. "What?" He laughed, amazed.

"Now that you would have everyone believe you bedded me, I repeat, you owe me marriage." Her voice was exceptionally calm, even cool, belying her inner turmoil.

"I owe you?" He threw back his leonine head and laughed, shaking the drops of water from his hair like so many careless diamonds in the morning sun. "You, a skinny little slip of a girl, _you_ say I must marry you?"

"Yes, you must," she repeated, trying desperately to ignore his amusement. "If you wish to rule here without constant rebellion, you'd do well to honour me. The people of St. Abb's respect me and my family. They could make your life a merry hell."

"With you in the lead, no doubt," he ginned. "Well, by Odin's one eye, you do not lack courage, Dawnlyn Renfrew."

"No, I do not," she conceded, eyeing him carefully. "Norsemen are known far and wide for their cleverness," she went on slowly while he dressed, "and if you are a wise leader, I think you'll see the advantage of an immediate betrothal to me."

"Not much advantage as yet when I shall be absent from the Hall a good deal of the time. I am a _warrior_, Dawnlyn, not a landlord who tends sheep and settles the squabbles of my subjects." He buckled his belt, sheathed his sword in its place as if to punctuate his words.

She thought furiously - there must be a way to convince this brute! "If you plan to be gone from the tower often, then would it not be wise to have a wife at home, one who knows much about the inner workings of your keep and can run things smoothly?"

"And who could lead these Scotsmen into rebellion while I'm away?" He threw in coolly.

"No!" She said, "Not as your wife…I am a woman of God, I would never do such a treacherous thing. But as a woman dishonoured…one who has been made to seem a whore…"

"A whore?" He looked at her with bewilderment. "But I have not touched your _precious_ virginity! You are no whore!"

"In the eyes of my people, I am. By bringing me to this chamber you sealed my fate. I speak truthfully."

Eric grumbled under his breath, then finished dressing.

Finally he turned his full attention back to Dawnlyn. "You say that as my wife to me I could place trust in you?"

"Aye." She felt hope build within her and yet, at the same moment, she wished he would say 'no' and release her from this dreadful duty.

"And as my wife you would honour my position of jarl while I am gone and would seek to have your subjects do the same?"

"Aye," she whispered again. "I swear I would."

"I will think on it," he said finally, and Dawnlyn let out a deep, ragged breath. "Now I have much to tend to here in this new land and cannot dally here longer with you while the sun shines in the morning sky." He strode to the door and she again felt oddly dashed by his curt dismissal. And yet what he said was true: he was not a civilized landlord, nor was he used to mincing words with women - he was a warrior and he dealt with her as directly as he would with a man.

She fully expected him to leave the, but Eric seemed to hesitate at the door. Finally he turned on his heels and strode back to where she sat, bewildered.

"Stand up, Dawnlyn," he stated, towering over her. "I have treated your proposal in too great haste. We met only yesterday and I hardly know you. You are a stranger to me, woman. But let me look at you for a moment before I must go."

Dawnlyn blushed furiously; he treated her as if she were a more on the auction block, as if he were deciding on just how much to spend.

"Come, Dawnlyn," he drew her up with a steady hand, "I think you misunderstand. In my life I have had little time for women and their ways. A female is to be protected and, except to share my bed, I have never looked upon one fore more. I very much wish to know this woman who asks me to wed her."

So cool, so businesslike! And the way he spoke of women sharing his bed - how crude!

She shivered as his hands pulled away her cloak, then cupped her face beneath her chin. Her blush warmed as he studied her from head to toe. From her long copper tresses down the graceful curve of her neck, his eyes traveled leisurely, stopping now and again on the swell of a breast, a soft hip, the mould of a thigh beneath the gown.

His eyes returned to meet hers. "You are a beautiful creature," he stated levelly. "A man could do far worse."

"Thank you," she whispered uncertainly, wishing suddenly that she looked like an old crone. Why must she be the one to sacrifice her whole life? What if he did accept her offer and she was thrown into an unwanted marriage - how would she ever be _that person_?

Eric's hand fell away from her chin. "I have discomfited you," he said. "I did not mean to." He turned, retracing his steps to the door. Over his shoulder he called, "Well? Are you coming below break the fast? Should I decide in your favour, I do not wish to share my bed with a bag of bones, Dawnlyn." And he strode out abruptly, leaving her standing in the middle of the chamber, her face as pallid as a daytime moon, the phantom impression of his fingers on her still.


	9. Enemies

At first Dawnlyn had thought to dress for the evening meal like an old hag, for in truth her mood that day was hardly one of gaiety. She had tried to put her feelings into perspective, to give a name to her present predicament. Whereas she did feel like a sacrificial lamb, it was more, much more then that which distressed her. She felt rather that a life-giving umbilical cord had been severed and she was floundering, grasping for some kind of reality of loneliness and insecurity swept her. It simply wasn't fair.

But, perversely, she made up her mind that afternoon to be as willing and attractive a consort as possible. She decided that to cower away from her responsibilities would be equally as horrible a mistake as a possibly disastrous marriage - she had more sense of duty then that!

And strangely, too, she wanted Eric to realize just whom he was turning down, or at least whom he was treating in an infuriatingly offhand manner. So she took great care with her hair and her dressing after having Meg drag innumberale buckets of water up to her chamber for a long, leisurely bath.

She may have been raised to be a nun, and perhaps she knew nothing of her own attractiveness, but instinct told her to wear her most elegant and dignified gown, one that she never would have worn again had she gone to Coldingham - there it would have been cut up to use as a rich altar cloth.

It was a fine, soft wool gown of the deepest, richest royal purple. Banding the sleeves above the elbow and around the square-cut neck was a wide swathe of intricate gold embroidery. The gown fell in tight-fitting gussets over her hips to swirl beguilingly around her trim ankles. She let her hair flow loose in rich, rippling copper waves and put a thin gold circlet on her head to hold it in place.

She studied herself in the shining metal mirror and decided she'd do quite well. Purple was a daring hue to combine with her colouring, but somehow she carried it off with a flair.

She hadn't seen Eric since breakfast, when he'd left her with the casual remark, "I've things to do. See to the dinner tonight. I wish to feast well with my men in the great hall. You will be there." And he hadn't even seen her eyes narrow, catlike, not her hands clench whitely in her lap. He'd walked straight out with Sven, their heads together on warriors' matters, their easy male laughter wafting back to her across the room.

It must have been then that she'd decided to show him, to prove her worth in the face of his neglect. She might be all alone now, her very existence threatened, but she would hold her chin high. She knew she was indulging in the sin of pride, for it had been pointed out to her repeatedly by her Aunt Gabriella, the Mother Abbess, but this unholy mess she was in negated all normal rules of behaviour, or so she reasoned.

She descended regally that evening to the great hall and proceeded to seat herself in the chair next to her father's, or rather Eric's, carved wooden seat. He came in shortly, accompanied by Sven - were the two _never_ apart? - and he had a ruddy, healthy glow on his lean cheeks. His fine blue eyes were bright and a smile curved his wide, mobile lips as he bantered with his lieutenant. Then he turned his head to say something to Sven and Dawnlyn saw, with a slight sense of shock, that he had a long red gash on his cheek that was clotted with dried blood. Had he been in a fight? Then why did he laugh? These Vikings - they were a mystery to her, laughing over wounds as if they were a mere tickle, then turning unimaginable savage over nothing at all.

Eric seated himself in the carved chair with a lithe, panther-like movement, then called loudly for ale. He neither greeted Dawnlyn nor acknowledged her in any way until he'd taken a great long draught of the alcohol, then wiped the foam from his lips with the back of a tanned, supple-fingered hand. He leaned back in the seat, resting the flagon of ale on his thigh.

"And so, my lady," he finally turned to her, "were you kept busy today?"

"Aye, my lord," she replied with a mock demureness, her eyes downcast so that they hid the sparks that played there. Then she turned toward him in her chair, tossing her hair back over her shoulder so that he would be sure to notice it and wondering from whence came such female coquetry. "I see that you have been hurt. Do you wish me to take care of it?"

"Of what?" He asked, then a wide smile split his lips and he gestured as the gash on his cheek. "Oh, that! Nay, don't touch it. It'll give me a nice scar, to match my others!" And then he turned to where Sven sat on his left and they both gave great guffaws of laughter that broke on her ears so harshly that she wanted to cover them with her hands. But she sat there rigidly, pretending not to notice his rudeness. Only the rose blush on her cheekbones gave away her anger.

The first course was brought and the men sliced off pieces of mutton with their long, wicked knives, tearing hunks of bread to act as trenches for the meat. They talked loudly in Norse and laughed often, putting away enormous amounts of food and drink while Dawnlyn tried to eat her portion with exaggerated care.

It was just as they were starting on the honey cake that a commotion drew everyone's attention to the heavy front doors. The bagpipes that had been entertaining the men at their fest stopped, their haunted wailing fading away too slowly.

"What is this?" Shouted Eric across the great hall. "Who disturbs my dinner?"

Then, to Dawnlyn's growing horror, two Vikings in full battle gear burst into the hall, and sagging between them they carried a bloodied, unrecognizable thing that Dawnlyn supposed to be a man.

"We caught him firing ships, my lord. He and another one who got away. I've sent the others after him, but this one I thought you'd like to see," said one of the men. "They barely had time to begin their sabotage before they were caught. They killed the sentry…"

Eric rose from his seat, the easy laughter and camaraderie gone from his face, replaced by a merciless scowl that sent icy shivers of fear down Dawnlyn's spine. He seemed to unfold, taller and taller, until he towered, hovering over the two men and the poor wretch between them. Dawnlyn could almost see sparks of power crackling around his body, a power that was so intense she could not help but think of his story about the giant wolf. She could almost believe the tale now…

"What possessed you to harm my ships?" He asked in a quiet voice, but the menace in his flat, steely tone was that of a well-honed blade, wicked and lethal.

The man tried to stand between his two captors; Dawnlyn could see his struggle to straighten, to face Eric. Finally his battered head raised and he looked Eric in the eye, a cold snarl on his lips.

"I only regret we did not finish you and your ships off," he spat, but his voice was weaker then his will. "My luck has run out," he said more strongly. "I do not ask for mercy. I am Gull Larson, and honourable man and a Viking. Kill me quickly."

"Who put you up to this, Gull Larson?" Asked Eric, his voice velvet-soft, yet edged in steel.

"No one."

"We shall see. Cut him, Sven." The tone was as cold as the North Sea, as irrevocable as death.

Sven drew his sword, a glinting smile on his lips. He is enjoying it! Registered Dawnlyn in abhorrence. She wanted to get up, to run away, to scream, but deadly, implacable horror kept her rooted to the spot. She went cold all over and her stomach began to flutter with sickness.

Then the sword flashed and a fine white line was drawn across Larson's face. It only began to ooze red after the man started to scream.

"Whose lead do you follow?" Asked Eric again.

Still the man resisted. He fell staunchly silent again, but his breast rose and heaved in shuddering gasps. Then, as Dawnlyn looked on, Eric called on another of his men to make their mark on Gull Larson and then another…and another. Soon the man was screaming without pause, a tatter of red stripes sliced him everywhere on his body. Then he sagged, unconscious, between his two captors.

"Throw a bucket of water on him. He's got a long way to go yet," grated out Eric.

While someone went to fetch the required bucket, Dawnlyn seized the moment and rose from her chair.

Eric whirled on her, as quick as a snake. "Where do you go, my lady?" He slashed.

"I wish to retire, please," she whispered, an involuntary tremor traveling down her limbs.

"No! You will stay and see this to the end, my gentle lady. It will be most educational to see what befalls Eric Northman's enemies!" His eyes were nearly black and he ground the words out as if she, too, had tried to burn his ships.

His rage shook Dawnlyn to the core. She knew a sudden, terrible fear of this man who had become another being, a totally alien being. She had an inkling of the Vikings' power to conquer everything in their path. And, too, she was hideously reminded of the deep chasm between their worlds. How would she survive marriage to this cruel man. She could not fit her mind around such a reality. She slowly sank back into her seat, mute and shaken.

Gull Larson regained his senses with the splash of cold water. When he saw that he was not yet dead, he seemed to collapse in upon himself; his will leaked out of him as did his life's blood, slowly, inexorably.

"I will tell you," he breathed. "No more cuts. I wish to go to Valhalla with all of my flesh around me."

His voice went on, weaker and weaker, naming his accomplice; then, bringing a rumble of fury from the gathered men, the name Rörik, came to Dawnlyn's ears.

"Your brother, Rörik," Gull Larson was saying, "sent us with you, Eric, in your banishment. He wished us to weaken you, destroy your ships, sabotage your forces in any way we could. We were well paid. He fears your power, Eric Northman, and well he may." The man's voice was a mere breath now. "I am done." His head fell forward, his breath panted in his chest. "Let me rest."

"You are a brave but misguided man, Gull Larson," said Eric in a clear voice. "Stand before me so that I may judge you."

Someone held a cup of ale to Larson's lips, several hands helped him to his feet. He stood, weaving, welling blood from myriad slashes, a figure of horror and pity and fierce glory. He faced Eric, raised his head, met the implacable sky-hued eyes.

"You are a traitor," said Eric, drawing his sword, "and should not be accorded mercy, but I find nonetheless that I respect your courage."

He let the words rest in the air, imparting the faintest glimmer of hope to the prisoner. Dawnlyn could actually see the man take a freer breath, one swelled with hope. Would Eric let him go? What kind of insane charade had they played with their prisoner?

The two men stood facing each other, one a bloody pillar of suffering, the other a powerful leader, an arbiter of life and death. Silence hung over them, breathless.

And then Eric turned away from Gull Larson, his shoulders slumped infinitesimally. What? Thought Dawnlyn, then the man is to live…

And in that precise moment, as her thought was still completing itself, Eric spun around, swinging his sword in the same eye-blink of time, and Gull Larson's head was rolling and bumping across the rush covered floor, its expression of near hope still on its lips.

A great roar of mirth rose from Eric's men, deafening and unutterably savage. Sven clapped a congratulatory hand on Eric's shoulder, grinning like a child at a mummer's act. "By Odin's beard, you outdid yourself that time, Eric," he chuckled. "Never have I seen such a look on a man's face…"

Eric glared down at the fallen body, gave it a nudge with his toe. "He didn't deserve to enter Valhalla in such a hopeful state. He deserved no such favour from me."

He turned his pale blue gaze onto Dawnlyn, triumphant and cold as a river in winter. "What say you now, my lady, of Viking justice?"

Dawnlyn straightened in her chair, as pallid and chilled as ice. "I can only wish I had not been forced to view it, my lord, and I am glad it is over. My God teaches a gentler way," she ventured carefully.

His stormy gaze caught and held hers. "Gentler, perhaps, but not nearly as successful." His voice was low and intimate.

She bowed her head in mute acquiescence, not catching the intent way his eyes rested on her clinging purple gown, her dainty, leather-shod feet, the pale circlet around her burnished copper hair, her breasts and hips and slim white hand as it lay half open in her lap like an averted glance.

Later, much later, when her nerves ceased their jumping, Eric turned once more to her. His mere attention, however, caused her heart to begin to slow, apprehensive pound in her breast and she was unable to meet his eyes.

"Come, now," he said, placing a hand on her sleeve, "where is that courage I have seen in you?"

She stirred uneasily in her chair. "My courage is intact, my lard, it is merely that my stomach turns."

"Would you have thought better of me if I had spared the traitor's life?"

"Yes…no," she whispered. "I truly cannot say…"

"Then I shall answer you." He took a long drink of ale. "What bothered you was actually _seeing_ his fate. You knew he deserved death, however, didn't you?"

"Aye." Finally her glance met his. "It was just the way…the _way _he died."

"It is our way, Dawnlyn. As leader, it is something I must do, although I do not necessarily enjoy it. It is simply expected of me."

"Expected?" She breathed. "Then you say that the bloodlust I just saw in your eyes was an act?"

Eric's lips curved into a frown. "You see much for one so naive…"

"I may be naive, my lord, but I have always been said to posses a good mind and a great maturity." She paused, then continued, "Tell me you gleaned no pleasure from the act."

"I cannot." He met her gaze pensively. "There are certain times when a man loses himself to the lust of violence. No doubt this sounds alien to you, Dawnlyn, but it is true nonetheless. I have just cause for my anger. My brother had me banished some time ago. You have been overly sheltered in your life and there is much you will learn as the years pass. Do not deign to judge me."

While she tried to sleep n the chair in their chamber that night, his words came back to haunt her, She was highly educated, but was she sheltered from knowledge of the real world? Had her very strict upbringing robbed her of a true understanding of reality? Perhaps, she mused, trying to find a comfortable sleeping position, perhaps there were some things in life of which she knew nothing.

And then she wondered, as she listened for his footfalls in the corridor, if she knew the first thing about men. Why had Eric spared her, then? Isn't that what cruel Vikings did to a woman - weren't they all the same?

And what of this night? Would he allow her to sleep in this chair or would he carry her to the bed? Just how much respect did he have for her and how long could it last? And the, without knowledge of where it came from, another thought seized her. If he did carry her to the bed, what would his lips feel like on her? Would his hard body be as strangely soft and warm as she recalled?

At daybreak, as she opened her eyes, she saw instantly that he was in the large bed and she wondered at what ungodly hour he had returned to the chamber. His back was to her and she could see the writhing scar on its breadth gently rising and falling in his slumber.

It did not seem possible that this sleeping man was the same as the fearsome warlord he'd been last night. She couldn't reconcile the two in her mind.

She dressed quickly and quietly, catching her hair back with ivory combs, and softly closed the door behind her as she left him sleeping as peacefully as a babe. She drew her first breath, it seemed, when the heavy door separated them.

Dawnlyn went directly to the great hall, where she took a loaf of bread, some cider and some salted fish and descended to the dungeon to see to her father and his men. Quickly, she told them of the grisly event of the previous evening and the men fell silent, their faces pale with foreboding in the dim light.

Ian cursed and stalked the confines of the room, restless and bored. "If he'd only let me free!" Was his constant refrain.

"Then you're better off there," said Robert dryly. "Hasn't your sister's tale put any sense in your head?"

"If only he'd let me _out_!" Said Ian again, his blue eyes wild with frustration. Dawnlyn left them, heavy with fear for her father and brother and the other men. Eric was capable of any brutality - now she knew that. What would he do to the men of St. Abb's?

When she reached the great hall, Eric was there, dressed in a fine grey tunic, tall riding boots and his ubiquitous sword, He looked fresh and energetic standing by the hearth, one foot resting on a bench, a casual elbow on his knee as he listened to one of his men. Then both of them threw their heads back and laughed as if at some jest, and Dawnlyn saw the graceful was his neck arched and the cords of muscle that ran along it to his lean jaw.

Then he turned and noticed Dawnlyn standing uncertainly by the trestle table. She felt like shrinking away from him but forced her back straight and her chin high. Instinctively she knew that to let him cow her would make her life hell on earth.

"My lady Dawnlyn," she called across the intervening space, "good morn to you."

He could have been an old acquantince, perhaps a friend of her family or a distant relation. How could he be so casual about everything?

She nodded coolly to him, then crossed the hall to break off a piece of Greta's fresh baked bread. She was ravenously hungry this morning. With all the turmoil she couldn't remember when she'd last eaten - it certainly hadn't been the previous night!

But she was not to break her fast in peace. As soon as she sat down Eric appeared next to her and slid lithely down into the seat beside hers.

"You will come riding with me this fine morning. I need you to show me the layout of these lands."

She could fell his blue gaze on her as she stared straight ahead, chewing the fragrant bread. "Why me? Surly there are others…"

"_Others_ will not do," said Eric tranquilly. "I will have _you_ to guide me, Dawnlyn." His manner left no room for argument. It was polite but unquestionably firm. "Come, finish your meal. I wish to leave shortly."

"I cannot just leaved. There are things I must do. The servants -"

"The servants be damned!" He said laughing. "There is a time for leaving it. You must learn to relax and enjoy life, Dawnlyn."

"_Enjoy_ life! I have been taught that life is a vale of tears, and that we all must fight the sin we were born with."

"Well then, Dawnlyn Renfrew." He leaned in close to her, tilting up her chin with one finger. "It's about time you learned differently. How fortunate you are that I am here to teach you!" He smiled into her eyes and she wondered whether he meant to frighten or console her with his arrogant words.

They set out after breakfast, having delayed only long enough to order a lunch made up and packed away in the saddle bags. Dawnlyn was very surprised that no one accompanied them. Even Robert Renfrew had always ridden out with at least a man-at-arms at hand. The arrogance of this man continuously amazed her. But then, she had to admit, perhaps it was not arrogance but plain self confidence that guided his actions. In truth, he had not made an ill-advised move yet.

"We're going to Coldingham first, as I wish to see how much damage was done to my ships," he said, his tone mild and conversational. "You must tell me the best way to go and indicate every point of interest along the way." His eyes, bright in the spring sun, met hers squarely. "You must know everything about St. Abb's, Dawnlyn, for if we are to wed, it will be your responsibility. I shall be gone much of the time."

"_If_ we wed, my lord?" She asked insinuatingly.

"I have not yet decided."

"Is today some sort of test for me, then?"

"If you wish to view it so…"

They followed a narrow path away from the rocky coastline toward the valley of the River Tweed. Green hills, misted in the haze of the spring morning, rose about them. The earth smelled damp and fecund, ready to sprout with summer's plenty. Farmers were out working their fields, a young child chased a herd of fat bellied cows from their path, fluffy white sheep grazed on the thick grass. It could have been before the Viking attack; nothing was changed and yet, Dawnlyn reflected, everything was changed…for her.


	10. Precious Virginity

The tiny village of Coldingham, on the bank of the Tweed, came into view. And there, at its northern edge, stood the cloister, with its ancient moss-covered stone walls, its square unadorned Romanesque church tower, its massive gates, closed now to Dawnlyn.

She stopped her mare at the edge of the village, suddenly unable to ride on; she felt a sad ache fill her, her memories as poignant as pressed flowers. She could not face seeing those dear walls, knowing the life that was now forever barred to her was continuing, secure and dignified within them.

"Come." She heard Eric say impatiently. Then, "The nunnery is still there, Dawnlyn. But it will have to exist without you. Your talents lie elsewhere. And be comforted by this thought: you're well out of that sterile life."

He reached out and did a strange thing - he patted her arm reassuringly, as if he knew exactly how she was feeling. He led the way past the cloister, past the tiny clutter of cottages and down to the shallow bay where his five dragon ships lay at anchor.

A sentry called out to them, seemingly not a bit surprised that the renowned Viking leader should arrive with no fanfare, no men-at-arms, only a strange Scotswoman for company. The Northmen's ways were peculiar - so casual, yet admittedly effective.

Swinging down effortlessly from the big grey destrier, he helped Dawnlyn dismount, then strode down the pebbled beach towards the ships, talking all the while with the sentry, asking questions, obviously about the attempt at sabotage the night before. He stood at the edge of the water, his hands on his hips, staring across the few yards to where one of the ships lay beached, one side blackened by fire.

"Have you ever seen a Viking ships before, Dawnlyn?" He asked, glancing around to her.

"No, my lord."

"Beautiful, aren't they? That one," he gestured to the largest ship that stood out a few hundred yards from shore, "is mine. She's called_ Wind Eater_. You should see her with her canvas spread, flying across the waves. Someday, perhaps, you'll take a journey on her."

The ships did indeed look like dragons, Dawnlyn thought. Long, dark, curved hulls, dangerous looking, tall bare masts, empty oar holes along the side like dozens of black, fathomless eyes. Dawnlyn gave an inadvertent shudder. Beautiful? No, she would not call them _that_. Deadly, yes, with a certain menacing grace. But never _beautiful_.

"Soon I shall sail back to Norway with these ships and battle my brother Rörik. You see how he tries to destroy me even across the sea." His cool blue eyes met hers levelly. "The other spy, by the way, was caught last night. You were spared _his_ end. It was not nearly so interesting as the first."

Then he spoke with some of the men who had just rowed to shore from one of the undamaged ships, giving them directions as to the repair of the burned vessel. They spoke for some time, the men seeming to feel equal to their chief, but yet standing back from him with intense respect. They listened to him, nodded, listened again, made suggestions, but always there was the distance of their respect between then and Eric.

Dawnlyn tucked away this knowledge, adding it to the other small bits of information she had gleaned from watching this Viking warrior. Perhaps someday the pieces would fit together into a comprehendible pattern.

On the ride back to St. Abb's, Eric was relaxed and talkative. It seemed that just as she was beginning to think she understood him, he changed, like quicksilver, into another being.

"I have spread the word that Mass will be held as usual on Sunday," he said after a while.

"Thank you, my lord," she retorted sarcastically, and then she could have bitten her tongue. She could not afford to antagonize the man.

But Eric only shot her a quick, sidelong glance and went on to say, "I have called for a meeting of all the people after Mass on Sunday. I shall have some words for them so that they can know their new jarl. I have ordered a feast as well."

What exactly sis he have to say to the Scots? She wondered. Was he merely consolidating his position here? She rode silently ahead of him, feeling his gaze rest lightly on her back.

They stopped for a picnic lunch by the banks of a stream that ran, gurgling, to empty into the River Tweed several miles below. Eric seemed very comfortable and relaxed. The sun shone in a blue sky as if everything conspired to make this a pleasant day. And in spite of the constant threat his very existence presented, Dawnlyn could not resist the lure of contentment.

She was sitting under a tall oak tree, sipping her cup of ice cold brook water. She'd thrown off her cloak, as the afternoon was warm, and her cheeks were pink from riding into the wind. A faint smile curved her mobile lips as she watched a baby lamb kick up its heels in the meadow nearby.

How long had it been since she'd had the leisure to just sit and look at a pretty scene like this? When was it that she'd last watched a baby lamb or noticed how the edges of the clouds feathered iridescently against the blue sky or felt the sun's warmth without being preoccupied? Just when had her life turned into a chore, delineated utterly by obligations, responsibilities, by the whole gamut of duties? She couldn't remember the last time she'd had an entire morning of idleness. She felt curiously unfettered, as if the Vikings' conquest of St. Abb's had paradoxically set her free.

"Is it so bad to be conquered?" Eric's voice broke Dawnlyn's reverie with the odd query.

She could only murmur, "What?" Her mind was unable, at first, to clothe the words with any meaning.

"You looked so content. I merely asked if it is so bad to be conquered." His tone was matter-of-fact.

"Aye, of course it is!" She answered, vaguely irritated. "You cannot possibly know how it feels to be at peace with the world, with yourself one moment," she mused aloud, "and then have your whole existence thrown into turmoil."

"Oh," he countered, "but I have known turmoil. You think it was easy to be unjustly banished from my homeland?"

"Nay," she replied honestly, "but it's not the same. My life is…_was_ at the nunnery. I was so happy…I knew what it was that I wanted."

"And now?"

"How can I know? The future is a huge, black empty thing. I do not know where I fit into it. I cannot see myself not my future anymore. I am possibly to marry a stranger and not even a Christian stranger. It is most…unsettling." She said quietly.

"But I do not take your God from you. You are welcome to him. I am not jealous, not are my gods. There is room for all in this world."

"Yes, but still…" she murmured.

Eric studied her for a moment, then turned away thoughtfully, looking about them at the serene setting.

"Would you be happier then this," he gestured to the green meadow, the stream, the remains of their meal, "at Coldingham? Is that what you truly believe?"

"Aye, of course," she said, but her words were automatic as the warm breeze touched her softly. "I had always planned to be a nun. It is my calling. I could have been the Abbess one day, as my aunt is, and I could have controlled my own destiny and that of the women under me. And I could have done much good as a nun." Even to herself, her tone sounded smug, even vaguely petulant.

Eric lay stretched out on the green grass next to her, resting on his elbow, idly chewing on a blade of grass. He eyed her carefully; the sun reached under the branches and turned his eyes almost silver. She could not meet them; she gazed off across the meadow. Such beautiful eyes, she thought absent-mindedly.

"Sometimes one must change the direction of one's life." He said quietly. "Sometimes there is sufficient reason to change what has been planned since childhood. Sometimes, there is even good to be derived from change. A man cannot afford to be set in his ways. If you don't bend with the wind, if you are brittle, you will break."

"And did you also study philosophy?" Asked Dawnlyn lightly, her mood relaxed for the first time in days.

"Yes, but that is not the issue here. I wish to point out a fact of life, that is all."

"And whence comes your vast experience on this subjects? Why should I heed your words?"

"Dawnlyn, have you ever once thought why I came here, to this inhospitable coast, to this foreign land, to make a new home? It was not by choice, believe me. I had a fine home, a good father, a loving mother, a hall full of willing servant girls, Why should I leave there?"

"Why, indeed, if it was as you say?" Asked Dawnlyn coolly.

"Because my father died of a festering wound last year and my older brother, Rörik, who carries a deep jealously and hate for me, trumped up a false charge against me and had me banished from my home. And so I speak from experience."

Dawnlyn could say nothing. She knew his words were sincere; the pain in his voice told her that. Somehow, the idea of Eric being bested by another did not gladden her heart. Reluctantly, she began to see it from his point of view. "You can never go back?" She asked hesitantly.

"Not unless Rörik is proven wrong, which, so far, I am _unable_ to do."

She stole a look from under her lashes at Eric. He stared, unseeing, out over the lea, and his brows were drawn together in a frown. His profile was noble, strong, his lips and chin and nose drawn by a bold but skilful hand. So, a Viking can feel pain and hirt, she thought. The knowledge did not console her as much as she would have surmised.

Suddenly he turned toward her and she quickly looked away embarrassed that he caught her gawking gaze. "So you see, I merely wish to show you that a person can be equally successful at more then one of life's tasks, if they are, indeed, a useful and intelligent person."

"And I suppose you mean that I am neither," asked Dawnlyn tartly.

"No, I mean just the opposite. That you would make an excellent wife and mother, just as, I'm sure, you would make an excellent nun."

"But there you are wrong," she replied softly. "I know not the first thing about marriage or motherhood. I was raised since birth to be a nun."

"I think, Dawnlyn," he said mildly, "that the idea of a marriage frightens you."

"That's not so," she said quickly, but knew it was a lie - the very notion of marriage to him was threatening beyond description. "It's simply that there are far better things for a woman to do in this life. Marriage, motherhood - and ignorant peasant woman can do _that_."

"Nay, my sweet Dawnlyn. There you are as wrong as anyone's ever been. If not for good mothers, there would be no good children. The world would be a wild and unhappy place."

She had no clever rejoinder for his statement and had to content herself with pursing her lips and disagreeing silently.

"You know Dawnlyn, you are far more beautiful when you smile." His tone was playful.

"Sometimes there is nothing to smile about," she said, knowing as the words emerged that they sounded as if she pouted like a child.

"Come now, Dawnlyn, I'm trying with all my might to be pleasant today. Can you not return my efforts in kind?"

She was silent, not wanting to anger him yet not wanting to appear to give in to him, either. Then she felt his sword-calloused hand on her arm. She could only stare blankly at the spot, feeling her heart leap under her ribs.

His hand, hard as it was, touched her so lightly that it was as if a warm, sweet breeze had stopped and caressed her. The tender pressure, so gently insistent, made her flesh seem to melt, made her bones turn to water inside of her, paralyzing even her will. A warm tingling began in the place his hand lay and radiated out, down to her fingertips, up her arm to her shoulder, then even up to her neck until it began to bend like the stalk of a flower toward the source of its life, the sun.

Slowly she turned to look into his eyes, those beautiful eyes she has learned to read like a book. They were a bright blue now, untouched by the storm she had seen there before, and they held her mesmerized for an endless moment. It seemed to Dawnlyn that some very great truth lay just behind the blue orbs of his eyes, but she could not say what it was.

"Come, Dawnlyn," he half whispered, his hand not moving, yet seeming to lure her toward him compellingly.

A warm, strange pulsing filled her. A bee droned somewhere; then there was utter silence. Even the blood in her veins and the breath in her lungs seemed to stop for a instant. All the air seemed to have gone out of the world.

She closed her eyes to better feel the alien sensations that flooded her. Then, inevitably, Eric's lips came down on hers. They were firm and soft at the same time, burning and cool, filling her with an exquisite pleasure that was utterly foreign to her, yet utterly familiar, too, as if something she'd dreamed once long ago had taken shape in reality. His lips moved on hers, his large hands came up to cup her face, holding her as one would a delicate flower, a bloom of exotic beauty.

Tenderness rose from the core of her, a tide so overwhelming that she was swept away. It continued to well through her, a powerful, surging river.

He pulled back from her and she opened her eyes, oddly bereft, to meet his clear gaze. She tried, desperately, to read the message in his eyes, the message she knew must be there, but she could not decipher it.

Still, her body was weak with sensation and, amazingly, she only wanted to feel his lips on hers again. There was room for no other thought in her mind. It was as if something beyond her control were punishing her, propelling her toward an unknown destiny.

His lips slowly touched hers again, seeking, finding, then all thought fled. She opened to his touch like a bud, feeling his tongue enter her, tease, withdraw, fill her again. Her body arched inadvertenly toward him, but she was not aware of it. She knew only a need, an all-consuming need, for the security of the moment.

"Ah, Dawnlyn," he said finally, breaking into her daze, "you'd be a terrible waste as a nun."

Then he kissed her carefully along the slim column of her neck and her stomach fluttered delicately. Slowly, slowly he eased her onto her back, his lips brushing her neck, her chin, her cheeks.

"It is not so terrible, is it?" He whispered gently, moving his mouth across hers with infinite lightness.

"No," she breathed weakly, wanting him to continue kissing her this way and yet sensing that if she did not stop him something beyond her control would have her in its grip. Then she felt his warm hand on her gown, touching the side of her breast through the material.

Suddenly she grew tense, afraid of Eric.

"Oh, little Dawnlyn," he said, stroking the swell gently, "don't you truly wish to know what it is like? There is pleasure beyond words in the act of joining. Let yourself go…seek out the adventure…" And his mouth pressed to hers and slowly he parted his lips until she could feel his tongue enter the warmth of her mouth once more.

The mere sensation of tongue meeting tongue was enough to send a quiver of delight coursing down her limbs until she was faint with reaction. How was it possible for this stranger, this Norseman with such firerce eyes and cruel lips, to have cast this spell over her?

He moved his mouth away for a moment. "Put your arms around my neck, Dawnlyn. It's all right…go on…"

Timidly, she obayed. Her eyes closed and her lips fell apart expectantly. Then his mouth was over hers again, only his kiss was not gentle, but demanding and exciting this time. Wave after wave of strange delight washed over her and she opened her lips fully to him, receiving him, twisting her mouth against his. Even when his hand cupped a breast again, she did not stiffen as before but allowed her mind, instead, to explore the wonderous sensations.

Her thoughts spun without direction, each vying for ascendancy but none achieving it. One moment she told herself guiltily that she must stop him at once, stop herself - the next, she longed for something as yet unknown, some fufilment that held itself before her like a haunting dream. Was it the adventure of which he had spoken that beckond her? She did not know. All she knew was loss of control - her armor was falling away, her shield lowered. She had never, _never_ let herself feel this way…

She sensed Eric's hands at the silver fastenings of her gown, one by one undoing them, and with each small opening, she gasped in shock into his warm, wanting mouth. Why didn't she fight him, stop him? What insanity had come over her?

"That's it," he coaxed, barely whispering. "let yourself find pleasure in it. I'll try not to hurt you, Dawnlyn. I would never want to hurt you…" He began then to slip her gown away, bunching it beneath her against the prickly grass. It felt so wonderful to let someone else take control - always, before, it had been she who had to think of everything, see to all the little details of her existence.

Dawnlyn's eyes were still closed, her brian still whirling with indecision. Then she felt the warmth of the sun on her legs and was aware of her undershift being lifted away as Eric's words flowed over her and his hand stroked her with endless, tender care. It all felt so wonderful…

Then the sun, dappled through the trees, touched her intimately and her complete nakedness struck her. Her eyes flew open. If she didn't stop this madness now…

"Don't be afraid," he whispered, lying down beside her, his head propped on a hand. "I haven't hurt you, have I?" Slowly his eyes travled the length of her, drank in her exquisite beauty as if she were water to a thirsty man.

"I…I don't know what has come over me," she said quietly, her flesh ablaze beneath his scrutiny.

"You are becoming a woman. It is long overdue and nothing to be afraid or ashamed of."

"But…"

With a finger over her lips he silenced her then; his mouth was covering hers once more and his hand found the soft young swell of her bosom. Sensations swept Dawnlyn; feelings deep within her were both terrifying and glorious at the same moment. Then his lips were on a breast and she drew in a surprised gasp. Eric seemed to delight in kissing her there and she failed to understand why - all she knew was a great, comsuming pleasure as his mouth kissed a breast, a pale shoulder, lowered to her abdomen.

Awareness of her naked state, of the sun pouring down on her flesh, slowly died away as he continued to fondle and caress every inch of her and she began to sense that there was more, much more he would do to her, but she had no idea how she should respond.

He sat up beside her slowly, a smile touching his sculped lips, his blue eyes nearly silver, reflecting the pellucid sky. He pulled away his clothes, placing them beneath her, his gaze lingering on her leisurly as if he had no more desire in the world but to view a breast, the soft, white womanly curve of a hip, a firm, rounded thigh.

"Look at me," he said carefully, placing a gentle hand on her chin and bringing her head around toward his long torso. And she did view him and her cheeks flamed as the sight of his powerful chest and the crisp, blond hair curling there. Lower, the defined marks of his abbs were visible on top of his sun-darkened midsection. Then, in curiosity, her gaze lowered even more and her reath was snatched away.

"Don't fear," he chuckled lighty. "I am no different then any other."

But the sight of his manhood, swollen and grand in the light of day, struck fear into her in spite of his words. She knew, from observing animals and their ways, what he planned to do, and surly it would harm her! Her strange desire to experience this adventure was quickly gone; she hadn't been thinking properly, so weakened was she by his gentle kisses, but now she was truly afraid and wondered how she could have let a single kiss, a warm, sun-blessed afternoon, rob her of her moral sense.

But Eric was drawing her back into his embrace again, and as his lips covered hers in a thorough kiss, she lost the will to protest. He held her now so closely that her thigh was pressed against his manhood and a trmor passed through her at the contact.

She wanted to protest, and yet she could stay in these arms forever. It was all so confusing, so unsettling…

Slowly Eric strocked the curves of her lip; then his hand moved and touched the white flesh on her inner thigh, carefully easing her onto her back, easing her legs apart so slowly that she barely realized the vulnerable position in which he has placed her.

Still his mouth covered hers, and any words she might have said were locked in her throat as she parted her mouth to his insistant kiss. Then she felt his hand, which still stroked her thigh, move upward and she started at the contact when a finger sought her intimately, deeply.

The pleasure she was experiencing became a kind of unrelenting ache, and her legs fell apart weakly while a soft moan escaped her lips. He moved his mouth onto the firm swell of her breast and teased a nipple that stood pert and waiting for his kiss. She could feel his hand move in rhythmic strokes agasint her inner flesh, and he sought more of her. Involuntarily, Dawnlyn began to move against his hand and felt hot waves of pleasure begin to build within her womb.

Suddenly his hand moved away and she was aware of him easing his large frame between her legs and she was aware, too, that his shaft stood at her opening, but no longer did she wish to stop him or even protest.

She wanted this union now. She sensed there would be great pleasure in it, and the years of strict upbringing, of staunchly taught morals, fell away like so many forgotten leaves in an autumn storm.

"Are you sure?" Eric whispered, his eyes searching her face.

"Aye," she replied faintly, then squeezed her eyes shut, waiting, ready to receive him. "I am…"

She felt his hands on her thighs again opening them fully, and then his fingers parted her and his shaft sought her moist entrance and he pressed against her until her gained a small entry.

Dawnlyn tensed, unable to stifle the reaction.

"No," he said in a husky, strange voice. "relax, little one…" Then, "That's better…" And he pressed himself in farther, felt the warm wall of her virginity while he watched her face attentively and saw her slowly bite her lower lip, waiting, uncertain.

"I do not want to hurt you," he said, "but you must not tense, Dawnlyn." Still, he realized his word were impossible for her to comprehend. He would take her quickly, then. Eric drove his member deep into her flesh, feeling the wetness of her torn virginity surround him.

A cry was wrenched from her lips and she tried to free herself, pull away from Eric. "Your hurting me!" She whimpered, and Eric felt strangely ashamed of himself. Tears begin to spill out from her clenched-shut eyes, streaking her pained and slightly panicked face.

"I did not mean to." He breathed. "If only you were not so tense." Then with great, agonizing restraint, he stilled his movements within her, letting her discomfort subside gradually. When she was finally silent beneath him, Eric began to move against her again and kissed her eyes, her nose, her mouth until she was subdued.

All the while Dawnlyn lay there, feeling no more pain but too uncertain to fully enjoy his soft caresses now. She felt oddly lulled by his slow thrusting and it was, she admitted, not unpleasant.

Eric continued to move within her, holding himself in check but sensing that this beautiful girl's first time would not be totally fulfilling to her - she was still too taunt, still waiting for him to hurt her again. If only, he thought, he could convince her to thaw a little.

"Oh, Dawnlyn," he whispered in her ear, "if only you knew. Someday, someday I'll show you…" And his pace quickened. He lost himself to all rational thought in the sweet innocence of her exquisite body. Suddenly he met his moment of utmost pleasure and shuddered above her, groaning lowly, crushing her to him as if he could not get enough of her young body.

Afterward, when he lay beside her, holding her against him, he said quietly, "You are so young, so innocent. Did I hurt you terribly?"

As he waited for her answer, he scrutinized her profile, trying to discover what there was about this too-serious girl that stirred him so. He'd had many women in his thirty-two years, but never had he been troubled by a virgin's pain before. He could hardly believe he'd asked, or that he waited in suspense for her answer. Her face was half averted from him, and he saw the youthful curve of her cheek, the sweep of her dark lashes, the unblemished skin and the incredibly fin, sun-touched down that gilded it. She was lovely, but he'd seen and bedded more spectacular beauties. And yet not one had touched him as profoundly as this one.

At his soft words, Dawnlyn was abruptly aware of a bee buzzing nearby, an insect click in the tall grass - reality flooded back and sun pounding down on her once more and Eric's tousled hair was touching her shoulder, his hand warm on her damp midsection.

Somewhere deep within her was a dull ache. "I am not hurt," she whispered. Finally a burst of realization engulfed her senses. "Oh, dear Lord," her voice was abruptly stricken, "what have I done?"

Eric was silent for a moment, then coiled a tendril of her hair around his finger. "Nothing any other girl wouldn't have done. Don't worry, Dawnlyn, it didn't touch your _soul_."

Sis she imagine it in her confusion or was there a tinge of humour in his voice? She was afraid that he was dreadfully wrong, that it had indeed touched her soul and that she'd never be quite the same again.

When they rode into the tower's courtyard that afternoon, Dawnlyn was still numb with bewilderment. She left her horse in the stable boy's hands and, without a word, went down the stairs to the dungeon.

She spoke to her father and Ian, saw to it that they had food and more oil for their lamp, but she barely heard what they said or what she answered. She didn't remember climbing the cold stone steps, passing through the great hall or entering her own chamber.

It wasn't until she sat down and leaned her arm on the table, nearly cutting herself on Eric's war axe lying there, that she realized where she was. She drew in her breath sharply and snatched her arm away from the glinting edge, looked around wildly for a second; then comprehension returned. And with it came shattering recollection.


	11. A Man Of Honour

Dawnlyn dressed for Sunday Mass sombrely in dove grey and pulled a gauze veil over her copper-bright hair. Taking up her rosary, she descended the stairs, holding herself composed and calm.

Yet, inwardly, grave doubts gnawed at her and had been eating away at her since she had been made truly a woman by Eric. The blaze that had been ignited within her body so suddenly brought to light a new side of her, one she never would have dreamed existed. On the one hand her stomach fluttered delicately remembering his quiet, careful caresses; yet, on the other hand, the loss of control that had consumed her was utterly devastating. How could she have given herself so shamelessly to a moan - a virtual stranger - who would not even promise her marriage?

She entered the chapel silently, vowing to herself that she would put aside such earthly notions while in prayer.

But she could not control her thoughts; it was maddeningly painful to her that Eric had not spent a single night in the Hall since that idyllic afternoon some days ago. She had even lowered herself to ask Sven his whereabouts and received only the offhand reply that Eric was occupied with the repair of his ship at Coldingham. It galled her doubly: first because her ignored her, second because she couldn't control her own feelings of rejection.

Where was he at this moment? When would he appear, tall and virile, his light blue eyes searching for her across the great hall? How had he so quickly become the focus of her life?

Perhaps Eric had found another who had caught his eye; perhaps at this very moment he was with another, looking at _her_ with those cool, stunning eyes, cupping _her_ face so tenderly in his hands, moving his lips over _hers_ so expertly.

Biting her full lower lip, Dawnlyn bowed her head and began to pray fervently that she could quell such worldly notions. Certainly she had never been raised to think about such things; as a novice in her church, she had had no reason.

Prayer was difficult this Sunday morning - the words that she repeated automatically were, for once, meaningless, and her heart clutched each time her mind's eyes insisted on envisioning Eric: first as the fierce leader who had so easily slain that man, and then as the gentle lover, the sun glinting off his golden hair, his muscles gliding effortlessly beneath his smooth skin.

Eventually the soothing tradition of Mass, the flow of familiar Latin words, surrounded her and the inner turmoil lessened. The women of the keep were there and also a few Scotsmen who were not locked in the dungeon, who had not fought either due to age or infirmity. And there were several Vikings at prayer also. Dawnlyn surmised that they were Christians, for as Sven had told her, Norway was now a Christian land. It seemed impossible, yet here they were. Idly, she wondered if they prayed for absolution, having killed in battle so recently. She guessed that they would.

Greta rose and left the chapel early; no doubt she had many preparations for the feast that would follow Eric's speech to the people.

Mass ended and Dawnlyn avoided the St. Abb's priest whose eyes sought hers. To face him now would be too humiliating; everyone in St. Abb's surly knew who had taken her from this very chapel that fateful day. No, she could not greet him.

She supposed she'd have to appear in the courtyard where Eric was to speak. It was expected of her. Suddenly she shrank from facing him again, and a small pulse of anxiety began in the pit of her stomach as she walked out through the double doors of the tower.

After the calm of the chapel, the courtyard was a seething mass of noise and excitement. The mournful lamentation of a bagpipe echoed off the walls of the tower in counterpoint to the suspense of the day's events. Every man, woman and child had come from miles around to share in the new lord's bounty. Some were merely curious to see him, some wished to ingratiate themselves with him, some had a complaint or a problem they hoped to lay before him; but most considered the legendary Eric Northman with fascinated fear.

Dawnlyn spoke to many of the people, men and women she'd known since birth, and assured them all that Robert and Ian were well. To their questions regarding her father and brother's fate, she had no answer. No one asked what _her_ fate was to be. They all seemed to treat her as the lady of the Hall; they all assumed that she was under Eric's protection - his chattel now. It galled her to be viewed so casually.

And then a sudden hush fell over the crowd; every face turned towards the steps that led down from the great, thick front doors of the tower. Eric appeared from within, flanked by Sven and another great, tall Viking with a full, reddish beard. Sven and the other man were dressed elegantly, in brightly coloured garments, embroidered with gold and silver. Their hair shone, newly washed, in the morning sun, and their strong hands rested negligently on the hilts of their long, inlaid broadswords.

But Eric drew every eye. He stood, tall and lithe and powerful, his feet slightly apart, his long, muscled legs in tight-fitting hose. He was dressed in stark, unadorned black, except for the string of gleaming white wolf's teeth around his neck.

Dawnlyn gasped silently at the sight of him. Never had he seemed so breathtaking to her, so imperial. He had an alien strength about him, and aura of something more then the normal man. And everyone around her felt the same; every breath was snatched away in thrilled respect. Dawnlyn was grateful for the security of so many bodies surrounding her, pressed close in forced proximity - she was only another face in the throng.

He spoke to the people in a strong, ringing voice, telling them that there would be peace and prosperity in St. Abb's now, that they no longer had to fear him or his men.

"For I want to rule in peace here and I am petitioning King Malcolm in Edinburgh to bestow these lands on me legitimately. Every man that works fairly will be treated fairly. There shall be a court of twelve men convened in the case of wrongdoing. Each man will receive his due. I am prepared to compensate every family that lost a man to a Viking sword either in gold or in sheep or cattle. My man Gaard" - he indicated the hulking Viking behind him with Sven - "will take the names of all those families and will honour their claims."

A relieved murmur rose from the crowed. Dawnlyn had bitter thoughts about people's fickle natures, for they had cheered Robert Renfrew not so long ago.

When the courtyard grew quiet once more, Eric swept the crowed with a cool gaze. "I tell you that all will be treated fairly and be protected against raiding Normans or other Vikings, true enough, but yet know this, my subjects" - he paused for effect - "if any one of you is caught in rebellion against my rule, or caught stealing on my land, I will show no mercy to that man or woman. Be assured that my power is above all others and I will not tolerate an enemy amongst my own people." Again he paused, then gazed over his shoulder to the turrets above.

Every eyes turned in the direction of his stare, and there Dawnlyn disconcerted a heinous scene: perched on two poles were the heads of the Viking spies who had betrayed Eric and set fire to his ships.

She gasped at the sight of the still drooping mouth of one and the other - the man Eric had personally slain - whose mouth still held the quirk of near-hope.

"My temper, when aroused, knows no bounds!" Eric's voiced boomed in the courtyard, and the closely packed bodies trembled in fear.

Dawnlyn knew now why he had summoned them, and, grudgingly, she had to admit a respect for his ability to manipulate people.

"My temper can be great," he continued, "yet I am also a man of honour." He paused once more, then reached out a black-clad arm toward where Dawnlyn stood and she gasped, so much did his arm resemble a raven's wing. Involuntarily she pressed herself back into the security of the crowd.

"Would the Lady Dawnlyn join me?" He said smoothly, his lips smirking very slightly, his spectral arm reaching toward her unerringly in the crush of humanity.

The crowd around her seemed to melt away, leaving a clear path in front of her. What could he want? What game was this?

Slowly, her heart pounding, she walked the few steps to where Eric stood. His eyes were calm, belying the upturned lips; they told her nothing.

At the sight of Dawnlyn standing next to Eric, whispers of speculation emanated from the people.

Eric raised a quieting hand and a pregnant silence fell over them. "Soon I shall be off to my homeland for a time and my man, Sven, will tend to the lands here. I hope to be gone but a short time and when I return…" His gaze moved from the crowed and rested on Dawnlyn's up-tilted face. "…when I return, there will be a marriage between your Lady Dawnlyn and myself."

Great cheers of delight sounded in the courtyard, and then he was asking her something and she couldn't hear, so loud was the roar of voices and so swift was the beat of blood pounding in her ears.

"What?" She asked inanely, trying desperately for control. "What did you say?" And all the while she couldn't believe the evidence of her ears. All that she'd wished and planned for had come to pass. Why, then, did she feel do defeated?

"I said, does my betrothed wish to say anything to her people?" And then he bent closer to her face. "Collect yourself, woman, you look about to swoon."

As the cheers died down, and Dawnlyn stood mutely facing Eric, a high-pitched voice sliced through the air, drawing Eric's attention.

He raised a silencing hands. "Who wishes to speak?" He called out.

"I," came the voice, disengaging itself from the rest.

"Step forward."

Agnes, the only midwife of St. Abb's, moved her small, aging body forward. "I wish to know why the Lady Dawnlyn Renfrew," her voice crooned, "the child whom, I myself, pulled into this world, is to be married? She was brought forth to join our church! She was to be a nun. You call marriage to a heathen," she cackled, "an honour? Posh, I say! You force the innocent child!"

The throng shrank away from the old woman as if she were tainted with the plague, while Dawnlyn's breath caught in her throat.

And then Eric took a furious step forward. Quickly Dawnlyn grabbed at his arm. "Please," she whispered, "Agnes is old, she's half senile, Eric. Please…let me speak to them…"

With great restraint, Eric turned toward Dawnlyn. "Make your speech good, woman, or this Agnes will have to pay the price of trying to humiliate me. I cannot let this pass."

Dawnlyn took a deep breath, faced her people. "I, myself," she began, "have sought this union. There is no force involved." Dubious grumbling sounded from the people. She tried again. "It is true!" And a thought came to her then. "Your new laird even offered to allow me to return to Coldingham," she lied abruptly, feeling his gaze burn into her flesh. "Aye," she went on swiftly, "he did offer, but I have had a change of heart and wish to marry."

The crowed stood silently assimilating the news, and eventually even Agnes's hard glare softened. Their eyes seemed to say, Dawnlyn Renfrew, the sweet young novice of Coldingham, would not deceive us.

"Why would you say such a thing?" Asked Eric in a low voice.

"To convince my people, Eric. It seemed too hard for them to believe I would so easily give up my life in the church. I will pray for forgiveness to my God…"

"You are a woman of many side," he replied thoughtfully.

The feast went well; food swelled on the many long tables and ale poured from kegs. Dawnlyn though, had little appetite as Eric on her left and Sven on her right ate venison in frumenty, haggis, roast goose and quinces in comfit.

She was thinking of her strange fate, marriage, and she was thinking of her kinsmen, below, probably half starving.

"Are you not hungry?" Observed Sven, drinking heartedly from his flagon.

"Nay." She looked at Eric. "I have little appetite when so many rot below us. Why can they not join us, Eric? What harm would it do? The people would honour you." Her tawny eyes reached into his.

"They are fighting men, Dawnlyn, not so easily set down as these you see at the tables."

"They are weak and wounded and starving!" She retorted heatedly. "They can do you no harm!"

"Soon, Dawnlyn," he said levelly. "I'll release them soon, but not this day. I have my reasons."

"How easily you gainsay me, Eric," she hissed. "you care naught for my desires…you do everything to further your own position!"

"I told you I have good reason for keeping them below! It is _my_ affair!" Suddenly Eric pounded a heavy fist on the table, causing drops of ale to fly from his flagon. A respectful hush fell over the great hall.

Anger boiled in Dawnlyn's veins - how dare he dismiss her request as if she were a thrall and then humiliate her in front of the people? He would abuse her no more!

Quickly Dawnlyn gathered her courage and knew what she must do. In spiteful defiance she rose to her feet, forced a smile to her pink lips. "People of St. Abb's. Eric Northman." She gestured regally to the Viking sitting next to her, a murderous look in his eyes. "Out new master has this day done a great thing. He has decided to allow my father and brother and the wounded to join the feast." For an instant, she thought he would rise and strangle the life from her. But, strangely, he didn't. Instead, with a control she never dreamed possible, he came slowly to his feet, took her hand in his.

Not a soul in the hall spoke; they waited, their eyes fixed on the legendary Viking who stood a foot taller then the woman by his side, his blue eyes cool, unreadable.

When he spoke, Dawnlyn thought that the bones in her hand would surly break in his tight grip. "I have decided to free all remaining inhabitants of this tower. It is a gift to my betrothed, who deserves this" - his glance came coldly around to her, eyes penetrating - "and _far_ more."

Only Dawnlyn caught his true meaning - her nerve fled and she quaked inwardly. The Vikings and Scotsmen, sitting side by side in the hall, rose to their feet and cheered loudly at the terrific news.


	12. Forgive Me Lord, For I Have Sinned…

Eric looked over Dawnlyn's head to Sven. "Have them brought from the dungeon." His hard, lethal gaze returned to her. "Do you think these people are fooled? They know whose plot this it and that it is against my wishes," he ground out. "You have defied me, woman, when I sought only to honour you. For this you will pay."

But Dawnlyn's fear was replaced by elation when Sven and several Norsemen returned from below with her bedraggled kinsmen behind them. Her father blinked his red-rimmed eyes in the unaccustomed light; Ian lagged farther behind, his face carefully blank, his eyes cast downward meekly.

Sven led Robert Renfrew to the spot before Eric.

"Father!" Dawnlyn cried, trying to pull away from Eric's unrelenting grip.

"Hold!" Eric's eyes burned into her own. He turned his attention onto Robert. "I will have your word, old man, that from this moment forth, I am to be obeyed as the jarl of these lands."

It was a long moment before the vanquished earl could speak. "I give my word, Viking. You may trust me, as my people trusted me. But know that my word is given in defeat and I ask a portion of land on which to live out my days."

"Granted. Robert Renfrew," said Eric for all to hear, "you shall have a decent land that shall be freely yours until death. At that time it will revert to me."

Again, a cheer rose to echo from the stone walls.

Dawnlyn's heart swelled with joy. And then Robert said, "And I must ask one more thing, Eric Northman…"

"Ask." Replied Eric, his brow arched inquiringly.

"I ask that my daughter be treated fairly also. There must be no beatings."

A dark mask fell over Eric's face. "I do not beat women, Robert Renfrew. You need only ask this whelp of yours and gaze upon her unmarred skin."

"Aye," replied Robert, "I shall trust your word and she does look untouched. Nay, she looks better then ever to these old eyes."

And then Eric released her bruising wrist, letting her go to her father and embrace him lovingly. As he stood watching the warm scene, there came a sharp cry of warning from Sven.

"Heed your back!"

Eric spun around abruptly just in time to duck the slashing blade of the sword that Ian had snatched from an unsuspecting Viking.

Quickly Eric leaped to the side, unsheathing his own weapon.

"I'll have your head this time!" Shouted Ian, moving in for another blow. But Eric was too quick for him and again sidestepped the thrust.

And then Eric had borne enough. "Pray to your God, pup," he growled dangerously, "for you shall now taste my sword." He brought the blade up with both hands, crouched into a fighting stance and deftly moved in toward Ian.

Then - it all happened in an instant - one moment Eric's sword was poised motionless in the air, the next, he had swung it and the young man's sword went clanging to the floor.

Ian was arched backward against the table in a puddle of ale, his arms hanging limply at his sides while Eric's sword lay against his throat. "Be done with it, heathen!" Ian spat.

Dawnlyn watched the terrible scene, rooted to the spot, clinging on her father's arm. "No!" She screamed out suddenly. And abruptly she ran forward, kneeling at Ian's side. "No!" She cried again. "You cannot slay him! No!"

"Step aside," came Eric's voice, crackling with rage.

But she couldn't. She clung to Ian's limp arm, her stare fixed on the shinning edge of Eric's sword as a drop of Ian's blood darkened it, then ran with agonizing viscous slowness down the groove. "No, Eric….I beg of you, please…he's my brother. Please Eric!"

Eric's lips were curved into a thin, cruel snarl. "Get her away, Sven." He commanded.

But Sven could not budge her, so fiercely was she clinging to her brother.

Finally, exasperated, yet a touch of amused, Sven said, "I cannot without harming her, my leader!"

"By Odin!" Raged Eric, pressing the edge to Ian's throat with more force. "Be gone, Dawnlyn! I command you!"

"I can't," she wept. "he's my only brother. Spare him, please Eric, spare him…" she whimpered out, tears streaming from her wide, desperate eyes.

A tangible silence filled the great hall; even the hounds were quiet, cowering beneath the tables. Time stretched out endlessly at the tower's inhabitants stood mutely, expectant.

And then suddenly Eric emitted a deep roar and just as quickly pulled his deadly weapon away, tossing it aside so that it landed with a furious clang on the cold, hard, stone floor.

Dawnlyn looked from Ian's face to Eric's and an icy shiver ran up her spine.

"Throw this whelp in the dungeon where he may rot!" Eric ordered in fury, and for several long moments he stood there, his intense blue eyes following Ian's form as he was dragged away.

Finally, still unable to quell his rage, Eric turned to the throng. "I have shown mercy to this Renfrew boy for one reason, and one reason only," he thundered. "the whelp is young and hot-headed but came at me bravely. Still, he is but a pest and not worth piercing with my blade. May he rot in his own hell!"

Then Eric spun around to face Dawnlyn, teary eyed and trembling quietly in fear, still kneeling on the hard floor where Ian was a moment before. "Come here," he said in a deceptively quiet voice. "Sit with me and face these people with what you have done this day, for it is because of your folly that Ian Renfrew must suffer more."

And amazingly, as if forgetting Dawnlyn entirely, Eric turned his back on her and began feasting and drinking anew as if nothing at all had happened to mar a pleasant day. She was left, quivering with tension and near tears once more, to face the noisy crowded hall without even a passing word or a second's notice from Eric for the rest of the endless afternoon. She had to sit at the head of the long table, suffering in silence, the object of everyone's curious attention. She was only too aware of the whispers and glances that fell her way, of the scowls and gossip from her father's old friends. She knew exactly what they were saying of her: "A Viking's whore, an easy conquest, a weak, vacillating, godless woman." Even her father, Robert, who sat at the very foot of the table, was finding it hard to meet her eyes. It was her fault, all her fault, and Ian had to suffer for it!

She could have collapsed on the table in tears, but fierce pride would not let her. She sat, stiff-faced, all through the afternoon and into the dusk.

Eric, she realized bitterly, could have come up with no better way to punish her if he'd had a hundred years to reflect on it.

Finally, as the shadows lengthened and men fell snoring by the hearth or drunkenly cursed a hound too eager for a tasty morsel, Eric turned to Dawnlyn, seemingly as fresh and clear-eyed as he had been that morning.

He looked at her carefully, lingeringly, then spoke so that she alone could hear. "Walk with me from this hall quietly." He said in a dangerous whisper. "And do not give me reason to further shame you before these people."

With what dignity she could muster in the face of her trepidation, Dawnlyn obeyed silently and went with him aloft to their chamber. It was like reliving a terrible nightmare, but this time she went quietly, even though she sensed he would show her no mercy.

He banged the door closed ominously, turned slowly, deliberately to face her. "You nearly got your own brother killed." He said so quietly she had to strain to hear, but his voice chilled her innards. "Did you think the boy was ready to submit? Did you not know why I kept them locked below? Your stupidity had cost us all much, Dawnlyn."

"I'm very remorseful Eric, believe me, I…I did not think he would -"

"Even _I_ knew of this boy's temper! Have you always been so blind?"

"Aye," she wept, "but he's my brother! I could not know he would attack you!"

Eric stood over her furiously. "You will learn to obey me, woman…you will learn!"

"I'll try." She brushed away a tear that had slid down her cheek. "I honestly did not know…I'm sorry Eric…"

Eric breathed deeply, studying her for a moment, then strode to the tower window. Below, on the ragged cliffs, waves tossed themselves, sacrificed on the jutting rocks, their death glorious in the setting sun, giant plumes of white foam spraying the air, falling back to earth to be forever renewed. His eyes took in the scene while his thoughts dwelled on Dawnlyn, on her sudden, impulsive act.

She was an enigma. Were all women thus? He thought not. In her he sensed a combination of quiet serenity and, contrarily, a strong, rebellious nature. As greatly angered as he was at her thoughtless behaviour below, still, he found himself intrigued by this slip of a woman.

His rage ebbing, he took his gaze from the scene below and sought Dawnlyn's lovely eyes.

She stood in the middle of the floor, facing him squarely. "I'll understand if you no longer wish to marry me…"

"Have I said that?" He replied roughly.

"Well, no…"

"Then the betrothal stands as before. Furthermore," he said sternly, "an innocent such as yourself, and a defiant one at that, will no doubt be ever finding trouble or brewing it yourself. You need my protection, Dawnlyn. We will be wed, for I do not go back on my word."

They watched each other closely for an endless time and Eric drank in her beauty. Finally, he said, "It will be some time, however, before we wed. Lie with me now…come to my bed again. Willingly."

Her heart lurched. "I…I should not," she breathed, but was unable to move away from him when he came to her and swept her into his wilful embrace. She was powerless. She could not move away nor could she relax in his strong arms.

"Lie with me, Dawnlyn." He whispered.

"I must not again. What happened the other day was a mistake, Eric, a very serious and thoughtless mistake. If we were only wed. Why must it be so long before our marriage? Why?"

"There are things I must do…places I must go first before I settle myself. But to lie with me now is not wrong. We _are_ betrothed. It is binding." His mouth slowly descended and sought hers in a long, passionate kiss. She could feel the swell of her breasts pressed against the hard wall of his chest and slowly, inevitably, her mouth parted beneath his and received him. Her arms, which moments before had hung limply at her sides, came up to feel the breadth of his back. With his hands he carefully began to slips her clothes away while mouth clung to mouth in a ritual as old as time.

All the while she knew she should protest, flee him, but in her heart she truly did not want to. And when he took his lips from hers and her last article of clothing fell to the floor in a sighing heap, she shivered but could not cover herself from his eyes.

"You are to be my wife," he said softly, then reached beneath her knees and swept he into his arms, up off of the floor. "I'll not cause you pain these time, Dawnlyn, I'll honour you greatly." His mouth tasted hers lightly. "You cannot know this yet, my sweet woman, but you also desire this joining."

"I…don't," she whispered, but knew it was not true. Her eyes met his lust filled ones. "But _I_ do." he said.

When at last he placed her on the big bed, she watched her future husband take his clothes off and still could not fit her mind around the fact that she was to be wed, finally and unalterably, to this man. It frightened her normally practical mind - the shape of her future was blank, she could envision nothing. She closed her eyes and whispered up a fervent prayer to her God.

The bed sagged on one side; he was coming to her. But this time there would be no confused thought - he was her betrothed. It was not so wrong…

Then she felt his fingers on her cheek, stroking her soft skin. He was so close that his breath fanned her warmly. Her stomach clenched; her heart leaped like a wild thing, then settled back and pounded heavily.

"Do not be afraid, Dawnlyn. You will learn tonight of what the minstrels sing. It is time you truly become a woman." He murmured in her ear.

"I am a woman now." Her voice was a soft as thistledown.

"No. I only relieved myself upon you. Tonight _you_ will feel the pleasure."

"I do want to know," she whispered, opening her eyes. "I truly do Eric, may the Lord forgive me…"

His eyes were soft, the pupils so large they appeared almost black. He smiled, showing strong white teeth. "Have not fear. He will forgive you."

His face came closer, blotting out all else until the world consisted only of the two of them. He touched his lips to her forehead, her cheek - soft, lingering kisses - then to her neck and to the place where her pulse beat wildly in the hollow of her throat. His hands stroked her skin all the while, slowly, languorously, as if he had forever to arouse her.

Dawnlyn grew weak, whether from her own confusion or from his caresses she didn't know. She kept very still, fearing that if she moved, the spell would be broken.

Slowly, slowly, his hands caressed her shoulders, her arms, feeling how her skin and body jumped and shivered under his fingers, feeling how her tension began to ebb.

Then, when she was ready, he dared to touch one soft breast, stroking it slowly at its outer edge. She was breathing steadily now, relaxed. He had to be careful, patient beyond imagining with this tiny woman who was to be his wife, but the end would be worth it a hundred times over.

When he touched the peak of her breast, it was already hard. He heard her gasp, then he circled the pink tip with a finger. Her body quivered like a taut bowstring.

Lower, to her belly, her thighs, his sure hands trailed, stroked, patiently, so patiently. He felt his own strong need tempt him, but subdued it. There would be time for that later…

Then he moved his mouth to her breasts, kissing, sucking, then down to her navel. He was aware of her quickening breathing, the way her body shook involuntarily.

She let out a tiny sigh and he sensed that, at last, she was giving in to the sensations, even if it was against her will.

The his hand caressed the silken, coppery mound below her stomach. His heartbeat quickened. She would be ready soon. It seemed like he'd been waiting for her forever, waiting like the skilled hunter ready with bow and spear, waiting for the quarry to come close enough. And now she was approaching, lured by him, put off guard, until the glory fulfilled them both.

Carefully, he touched her within her woman's soft flesh, feeling at last her moist core, her inner beauty. Her legs relaxed, gradually fell apart, her white breasts rose and fell, her pink lips were slightly parted releasing quiet, shaky breathes. Soon, very soon, she would want him as much as he wanted her.

"Eric," she whispered, her voice wavering, "what is happening to me?"

His eyes smiled into hers. "You are learning how to be a woman, how to love a man."

"It is very frightening, very inexplicable…" She breathed.

"No. It is beautiful. Kiss me, little one. You want to, don't you?"

"Yes, Eric. I do." Her eyes were wide, clear as copper flames. Her arms went around his neck. It was as natural as breathing. She felt the masculine hardness of his arms and shoulders, felt the rigid scar on his back, different from her own body. Yet it felt _right_. He pulled her close, taking her lips with his own. She could not get enough of the sensations escalating throughout her body, her lips. She strained against him, their tongues meeting, blending.

His hand caressed her again, between her parted legs, and her body began to burn, a hot pain building within her belly, spreading out to her hips, making them press against him as if she wished to be even closer to him then she was, closer then her skin would allow.

His lips left hers, he kissed her closed eyelids, her nose, her delicate neck. "Are you ready now, my sweet Dawnlyn?" He asked.

"Yes, I think so…" She murmured breathlessly.

He poised himself over her, his manhood pressing at her. She opened herself to him, wanting something of which she was not quite sure, but knowing she wanted it desperately, more desperately then she'd ever wanted anything.

Then he slowly filled her body and she gave a great sigh of pleasure. But then the need rose again and she knew there was more to the act, even more.

He gently moved on her, in her; the sensation was both lovely and unfinished, full of shooting pleasure that was entirely new. It began to build, to carry her to the edge, further and further, until she had no mind at all, but were only sensations, wonderful and glorious sensations, moving in a whirlwind with him.

The whirlwind swept her, finally, gasping and shuddering, over the edge into fulfilment, clinging desperately to him, her arms encaged his back, pressing him closer. She heard her own cry of release with surprise, as if it emanated from someone else. Then she was aware of Eric plunging over her until he too was finished, releasing a low groan into the curve of her neck, breathing hard. And from somewhere in her consciousness appeared the words, formed silently but indelibly in her mind: "This man, this Viking, will be your husband."

And as she lay, panting, covered with a fine sheen of sweat, entwined in Eric's long limbs, she wondered whether the words were a warning of trouble or a promise of exquisite, _endless_ pleasure.


	13. The Cellar

St. Abb's Hall pulsed with preparations for the journey across the North Sea. For the past two weeks, since the feast and announcement of the betrothal, Eric had kept every able-bodied man busy, drilling them in the arts of warfare. Most of the men, along with Eric, had made their camp in the fields near Coldingham, where his dragon ships lay at anchor. Only occasionally did Eric come to the Hall, and then it was merely to check on one of the tradesmen such as the smith, to be certain he followed the instructions as to the forging of weapons or the repair of the chain mail.

He left Dawnlyn totally in charge of the entire Hall: the accounts, the farms, the sheep herds and the fishing village. She had been well trained in the skills of management at the cloister but still, she had a lot to learn in a very short period of time, as her father had always taken care of these matters, and she dashed around with the iron key ring constantly jingling at her narrow waist.

She was busy from sunup to sunset. There were everyday chores to be directed: the washing, the meal planning, the rushes to be changed on the stone floors, quarrels among the servants to be settled. But then there were the behind-the-scene tasks to be done: ledger accounting, tariffs to be collected, inventories to be taken both in the tower itself and in the many workshops - the smithy, the bakery, the tannery. And then, too, there was always the worry over the late spring planting: would it rain too much, or too little? Would blight be a factor this season? Were the sheep and cattle healthy?

She barely had time to fret over her future marriage or Eric's upcoming voyage or even her new responsibilities as the lady of St. Abb's. It was only at night, alone in the big bed that she had shared with the strange, passionate Viking, that she wondered and questioned and tried to imagine what her life would be like as his wife.

She could not picture herself as a married woman - a wife and mother. There was absolutely no connection between _that_ woman and the girl, Dawnlyn Renfrew, who had always been destined for a notable position in the nunnery.

She supposed, when she had time to reflect, that it would always be like this - she busily running the keep while Eric was away a-Viking. The knowledge was at the same time welcome and unsettling, but at least now she knew, whatever happened, she would be able to endure - not by calculation, not by knowledge of good and evil, not by high principle, but merely by a curious and shifting sense of equilibrium that defined each of these.

One of her least favourite chores had been put off long enough. After the village bell had be rung midday she tied on an old apron of Greta's, having to pull it almost twice around her, and descended into the dark cellar of the tower where the dusty, cobweb-draped casks and kegs were stored. Someone had to take inventory of the cider, the ale and the mead, for Eric had ordered that a goodly number of kegs were to go on the ships with him, and she'd best be certain of the exact tally.

She hated the damp, musty cellar - it was a foul hole and so dark. It seemed as if some terrible, crawly thing was always waiting, just out of the wavering circle of light cast by her oil lamp. She'd hated the cellar always and even as a small child had refused to play hide-and-seek there, although Ian had taunted her unmercifully.

However, mature, dutiful ladies could not indulge themselves in such frivolous fears, so Dawnlyn tried to ignore them and began marking down the numbers of each type of keg, straining to scratch the figures into her ledger in the uncertain light.

A thump and scuffling of shoes sounded behind her, and she jumped as if burned, stifling a scream of fright.

"My lady?" She heard a masculine voice say, them more shuffles.

Quickly she grabbed at the oil lamp to hold it up and see who it was, but her hand slipped and she dropped the lamp. Suddenly all was oppressively, endlessly black, a blackness so impenetrable that it was as solid as a stone wall.

"By the sweet blood of Christ!" She quavered, cowering back until she hit the piled-up casks. "Who's there? Who is it?"

"Dawnlyn!" The voice came nearer.

"Who is it?" She half-screamed.

More scuffles, a muted curse. "What in hell have you done with your lamp?" Came the voice, quite reasonably irritated, not at all unworldly.

"Sven!" She breathed.

"Yes, it is Sven, and I'm half-suffocated in this dark. Where are you?"

"Here!" Then she almost laughed. Where was _here_ to Sven, who could see nothing.

"Keep talking, I'll find you."

"I'm so silly. I knocked over the lamp." Her voice quavered slightly. "Have you a flint?"

"Yes, my lady. But it does neither of us any good if I never reach you in this accursed dark!" Then there was a thump and another curse.

"Sven, are you hurt?" She called.

"Only a minor wound. Nothing to speak of." Then, "Ah, I've found you!"

And Dawnlyn felt the warmth of another body and then the feel of a large hand on her breast - quickly snatched away - a disembodied hand out of the stygian darkness.

She started, then relaxed. "Oh," was all she said, feeling her cheeks flush in the inky blackness.

"Forgive me, my lady…I did not mean too…" Sven stuttered quietly, fumbling with an appropriate apology. "Where is that dastardly lamp?" Asked Sven, dismissing the matter promptly, and she could hear him scrabbling around on the damp ground for it. She heard the sound of a flint striking, and soon there was a dim glow that quickly brightened. Sven's grey eyes and shortly cropped beard loomed before her.

"Oh!" She said again. "Thank the sweet Lord!"

"Thank Him that there is a bit of oil left," added Sven. "and what are you doing down here like a mole?"

"I had to count the kegs."

"Oh, I see, hard at work, as usual."

"Well, there is much to be done…" Suddenly she felt distinctively uncomfortable with the tall, handsome, young Viking standing so close to her in the circle of light. There was something terribly intimate about being alone in the darkness with him, something disquieting that she knew he sensed, too, for he abruptly stepped back from her and an expression of exaggerated unconcern cloaked his features.

"And now that I have found you," he said quickly, "I will give you my message so that you may continue your work."

"Aye?"

"Eric wishes a feast for this eve, as he leaves on the morning tide."

It was as if her heart stopped. And yet she had known that he was leaving soon. She had known all along. Why should she feel this stab of sudden desolation?

"So soon?"

"It's not so soon, my lady. It has been several weeks…"

"Aye, so it has." Her voice was small and lost in the echoing darkness.

"Now, you must excuse me, Lady Dawnlyn," - his voice was very proper - "for I must return to my labours, also…"

"Of course, Sven. But I think I shall return to the hall with you. I've had quite enough of this place for today." She gave a nervous laugh and picked up her ledger.

Sven took the lamp and, holding it high, led her from the cellar, attentive to every step she took, yet meticulously not touching her or helping her up the stairs.

When they emerged into the light of day once more, Dawnlyn breathed a great sigh of relief, then turned to Sven to thank him.

He was observing her with a drawn brow, his stormy eyes containing an expression of rare seriousness. "Will you miss Eric?" He asked abruptly.

Dawnlyn cocked her head to one side, studying Sven. What an odd thought for the young Viking, whose interests in life seemed only to be wenching, making merry with his fellow warriors, or training with his broadsword. "No." she stated softy, "I think I shall not miss him at all. Have I seen him lately? What difference would it make if he is at Coldingham or across the sea?"

"By Odin, you're right!" Sven's lips at last broke into his normal carefree grin. "He is never lazing about the tower, is he? A good leader, Eric is."

"Aye," Dawnlyn murmured darkly, "he is an excellent leader of men…"

She checked the kitchen while Sven went to his chamber to bathe, then took some food to Ian, who was still locked below. She and her brother argued as they had for the past two weeks; he was going half mad and kept insisting that Dawnlyn could somehow set him free.

"I cannot, Ian," she whispered so that the sentry could not overhear. "I tried once and you attacked Eric. It was your doing…not mine."

"Get me out of here!" He chocked. "I am going insane!" He clutched at her arm. "Please, sister, get me out of this hellhole. Tell the _heathen_ I'll do anything…_anything_!"

Dawnlyn left feeling depressed beyond measure and sought the comfort of her own chamber, where she changed into a more suitable gown - a dusty rose linen with long, flowing sleeves trimmed in gold. As she combed out her russet, springing hair, she thought on Ian's plight. But really, there was nothing she could do but ease his days below by snaking him food and ale. She had even taken him a chess set to wile away his hours, but, in a temper, he had tossed the fine wooden pieces to the floor and crushed them with his boot. Perhaps, she thought, when Eric leaves, I'll persuade Seven to free Ian.


	14. Woodwoman

The handsome young Sven was already in the great hall when Dawnlyn returned, seeming to have recovered some of his bravo. He walked to the foot of the steps and offered her a brawny arm. "Is this not the proper way for a Scots gentlemen to great a lovely lady?" His pale grey eyes sparkled, teasing her.

"Yes," Dawnlyn said, smiling easily, "you _are_ learning, Sven."

"And so are _you_, my lady. You have finally learned the art of gaiety."

They strolled toward the long table. "I should take a wife," he said quietly, "but there are none so beautiful as you, Lady Dawnlyn."

He pulled out her chair while Dawnlyn blushed an even deeper hue then that of her rose gown, wondering suddenly what would have transpired if Sven, not Eric, had taken her first…

"You know," Sven said, a little more seriously now, "a Norse woman had great freedom compared to what I have seen here. She can inherit from her father, she decides her own fate in many areas. By Thor's hammer, she can even divorce her husband for sufficient reason!"

Dawnlyn was aware of Sven's eyes on her, gauging her response to his information. "That is a disgusting custom. It could only produce anarchy and destroy the family. It is against God's law."

"Well, my lady, it has not done that, but it _has_ released women from unendurable marriages. It is out way."

She was just sweeping aside her flared skirt, disdaining Sven's explanations, when they both heard a muffled cough at the double doors and turned toward the entrance.

How long had Eric been standing there, watching them, neither ventured to guess, although why he remained silent, Dawnlyn could not fathom.

Eric's eyes traveled eloquently from Sven to Dawnlyn's rosy cheeks. "Have bath water sent aloft," he said tightly, then strode across the hall past them and disappeared up the curving stairs without another word.

"You'd best go to him," said Sven under his breath. "his mood appears foul."

"No," Dawnlyn replied. "I have duties in the kitchen to see to. Let him soak in a warm bath and ease is mood."

"Perhaps you are right. It may just be that he had a difficult day training your Scots." Sven said hopefully.

Eric descended to the great hall shortly after sunset. Most of his men were already there but had not partaken of the food until their leader arrived. Dawnlyn was in the kitchen, watching over Greta as the last tray will filled with baked halibut, apple mousse, griddle bread and early carrots from the welled-in kitchen garden.

It was there that Eric found her. "Leave the work to the servants," he said gruffly, taking her arm with a possessive hand.

As they walked together to the table, Dawnlyn was struck by his change of appearance. Clean shaven once more, his sun-darkened skin glowed. His eyes were a clear blue and his glided hair shone in the torchlight. He wore a velvet surcoat of burgundy over a clean, white shirt, which was open at the front, revealing the patch of crisp, light hairs over the golden skin of his chest. As well as showing off his strong chest, there was a clear view of his defined stomach muscles. His features were stern and he appeared to be still preoccupied as a muscle worked in his lean jaw.

Dawnlyn seated herself next to him. "You leave tomorrow?" She asked, attempting to alleviate his mood.

"Yes. On the morning tide." He took a long draught of his ale, began to pile food on his trencher.

"The training went well?" She tried a new tack, wondering at his coldness.

"Umm," he responded, chewing meat from the leg of a spring lamb.

Exasperated, she turned to Sven. "Will you be saddened to remain at St. Abb's, instead of traveling alongside Eric?" She queried.

"Very much so," replied Sven, "I shall miss what promises to be a great battle, but then - who knows? - perhaps I'll find a young, lovely wife. There will be time now." He watched her carefully at his disclosure.

"You really think you may marry?" Asked Dawnlyn, picking at her vegetables.

"Unless I'm lured off by a wood-woman, yes."

"A wood-woman?"

"Why, surly you have them in Scotland," replied Sven, a blond brow raised quizzically.

"No. I do not think so," said Dawnlyn thoughtfully, "who are they?"

Sven laughed. "You mean…_what_ are they!"

"Perhaps Dawnlyn is not interested," said Eric curtly, turned toward them.

"Oh! But I am," she said quickly. "Please, tell me, Sven."

"They are beautiful, Lady Dawnlyn," he began. "So lovely that a man cannot resist their lure, and once he is trapped, it is hopeless, for they hold him in their spell."

Plainly, Dawnlyn was confused. "But…women who cast spells are witches…they are not usually pretty…"

"No, no. You misunderstand," Sven smiled. "They are not _witches_, they are wood-women." He thought for a moment. "I shall tell you what happened to my father so that you may better understand."

At Sven's words, Eric grimaced and rolled his eyes in exasperation, then turned to his flagon of ale.

Sven continued, undaunted. "One day, while my father hunted red deer in the tall forest, a great cold fog swept the air and he became hopelessly lost. But my father was a wise man," said Sven proudly, "and instead of walking in circles through the banks of fog, he merely waited for it to pass on and sat down under a tall spruce on the mossy floor. And that was when he first saw her…"

"The wood-woman?" Asked Dawnlyn, caught in the strange tale.

"Yes. She came like a wraith through the mist, and her hair was raven black and her eyes were the brightest blue he had ever seen. She wore virgin white and through the damp material, he could see…Well, she was a _most_ beautiful woman." Sven glanced across to Eric for approval, then went on.

"My father said her lips were as red as an autumn rose and her teeth as perfect as white, gleaming shells. He rose from his moss seat and approached her. The woman held forth her arms for him and my father gasped at her exquisite beauty."

"She must have been very stunning," mused Dawnlyn, wondering from where the woman had appeared.

"That she was. And desirable, too," he added, "in a way no man can resist. And he went to her, wrapped his strong arms around her slender body. And that was when he knew…"

"Knew what?" Dawnlyn's tawny eyes were as wide as a kitten's

"That she was not of earth but a wood-woman!"

"Oh!" Breathed Dawnlyn, bringing a hand to her breast.

"Yes. You see, Lady Dawnlyn, wood-women are hollow at the back." He paused to watch Dawnlyn's sudden, sceptical expression. "It is true! And for years my father was under her spell and could see no other woman save her…the one with the beautiful face but the insubstantial, hollow back."

Dawnlyn raised a slim brow. "And how, may I ask, did he break this spell?"

"Why, he met my mother, of course. Can't you tell?"

"Tell what?" Asked Dawnlyn cautiously.

"Tell how beautiful my mother is. Why…all you need do is look on me!"

Then, after a split second of bewilderment, Dawnlyn laughed so hard and so long that she had to hold her sides gasping for breath. Sven, too, roared in delight for some minutes while the noise in the hall mingled with their mirthful chuckling.

Only Eric did not join the merriment. When at last Dawnlyn calmed herself, her eyes glistening golden with mirth, she took note of Eric's frown.

"It was a wonderful tale, don't you think?" She asked him, still smiling.

"Yes," Eric replied, "but I've heard it over a thousand fires. Tonight, I have matters of greater import on my mind."

"Such as?" Asked Dawnlyn, vaguely irritated that he would not allow himself to enjoy this last evening with her. And then it struck her - he was preoccupied, true, but his behaviour, since arriving back at the tower that afternoon and seeing her with Sven, was nothing short of childish!

"There are many things to be done still," Eric said tightly. "tomorrow we set sail and all must be in readiness. I must forget nothing. Once we are away, I can relax, but not this eve." And then he turned to face her, a tiny smile at the corner of his well-molded lips, a casual elbow resting on the table. "I do have a gift for you, however. One that I know will please you greatly."

"A gift?" Dawnlyn suddenly felt a new tenderness toward him - he hadn't forgotten her entirely after all.

"Sven!" Eric looked over her head and nodded. His lieutenant rose and left the great hall.

"Oh, Eric, what is it?" Dawnlyn cried. "I can't wait! Where has Sven gone?"

"Patience," he said, smiling inscrutably.

Sven returned a few minutes later and behind him, Dawnlyn saw, was Ian!

She leaped to her feet, blinked her eyes to be certain. Eric took her hand, began to pull her gently back down into her chair.

"Not yet, my lady. First I must speak to the boy and judge his mettle."

"But -"

"Allow _me_ to handle this," Eric said with a hint of steely amusement. "Remember the last time?" He turned to Ian, who stood on the other side of the table from them. "What have you to say, boy?" Asked Eric sternly.

Ian looked from the fierce Norseman to his sister, then back. His expression was sullenly rebellious, but at least he made an effort to quell his thoughts. "I do not like your being here, but I see the folly of trying to slay you, Viking. It has cost me dearly in sanity."

"So you have decided that to come at my back is folly? I see. And how can I know that you will not change your mind?" Eric's lips tilted at the corners ominously.

"I wish to live," replied Ian. "Your power is great and I have none."

"And what do you figure I owe you, Ian Renfrew, for these lands that would have been yours one day?"

"To allow me my life will be sufficient." Ian said thoughtfully. "That is all I seek. My life. My freedom."

"Your sister," Eric said, glancing slowly at Dawnlyn, "has no doubt told you of my forthcoming voyage to Norway. Would you care to join my ranks and perhaps earn a place under me? I require your total loyalty and your brave sword arm."

Ian's mouth fell open in surprise; it was obvious he had expected nothing. "I…I would be honoured to serve. I am a fighting man. Just allow me my freedom and my sword and, by God, you will have my loyalty!"

"Well spoken, Ian Renfrew. Now go with Sven and you will be outfitted. We sail on the morning tide."

"Thank you, Eric Northman," said Ian earnestly, "thank you."

Dawnlyn was so overjoyed she could have thrown her arms around Eric and kissed him right in front of everyone. Instead, taking a deep breath, she said quietly, "And I thank you, too. There could be no better gift…I'm very grateful Eric, sincerely."

"It's as much my gain as yours."

Directly after the meal, they retired to their chamber, but Eric was restless, unable to keep from pacing the rush-covered stone flooring. Dawnlyn had thought there would be a different fate in store for her - and it was not watching this man pace to and fro like a caged lion.

Strangely, she felt a small loss. It was as if he were dismissing her once again, refusing to let her into his life, past the impenetrable male walls he set up about him.

While he paced, she slipped into a night shift of oyster-white linen with lace trim. "You are preoccupied, my lord," she said, standing near the bed, unsure as to what she should do next. It had, after all, been weeks since they had been alone together.

"I am," he admitted, stopping now to face her. "And you are too lovely to ignore, Dawnlyn. Like Sven's wood-woman, you have the power to captivate." But he made no move toward her.

"Would you like me to rub your shoulders?" She asked, remembering the times she had done so for her father.

Eric raised a brow. "Rub my shoulders?"

"Yes…to help ease your tension."

"_Am_ I tense?"

"I should think so."

"And I am also being rude on our last night together." He swept a tired hand through the rumpled thickness of his hair. "If it pleases you, Dawnlyn, you may rub my shoulders." He walked to the chair and sat, his long legs stretched in front of him.

She helped him off with his surcoat and began to work at the tense sinews beneath his shirt. And while she kneaded the heavy muscles he thought to herself that he must be terribly ignorant of women. Men - he knew their ways well enough; but women were another matter altogether.

"Oh," he sighed, "that does feel quite good. Such a luxury."

"Have you really never had your muscles massaged before?"

"No," he admitted, relaxing beneath her soft stroking. "And never have I shared a chamber with a woman the night before setting sail. It is the custom of some men to indulge themselves, but I find it distracting."

Dawnlyn felt a curious indignation at his admission, yet she was relieved in a way, too. She wondered if she would ever have the opportunity to see him again on the eve of battle. Would he _really_ return from Norway? And how would she feel if he did not?

"I could almost sleep," he said in a husky voice, his head sagging comfortably on his chest. "Yes…I might just sleep a few hours, then see to the loading of the ships…"

He was drifting off; she let her fingers press into the thick muscles gently, soothing, relaxing him against his will.

"Feels wonderful," he sighed deeply. Then, "Come, Dawnlyn, before my eyes close…come onto my lap."

Her heart beating rapidly, she took his proffered hand and moved around the chair, coming quietly to rest in his lap.

The mere contact of her rounded bottom against the hard thighs was enough to send a tingle of unbidden desire coursing down her limbs. He put both arms around her waist and enfolded her slender torso in his embrace. His head rested against the curved swell of her bosom. "I wish to bed you, little one," he said into her breast, his breath warm through the linen. "You put an ache in my loins, so lovely were you when Sven held you with his tale…"

"Do you mind my talking to Sven?" She asked carefully.

"Certainly not," Eric replied quickly. "You will spend much time with him while I am gone…"

"And does that bother you?" She pressed on, sure that he was not being entirely honest with her.

Eric murmured something under his breath in Norse, then said, "I am not overly pleased to think on it. Sven is a handsome young man." He paused, then said, "But I trust him completely. It is _you_ I worry about."

Me?" She gasped. How could he even think she would…

"Yes, my little one. Whether or not you know it, you have a passionate nature beneath the cool façade." He said smiling. "There is a hot-blooded girl whose very nearness to me is quite disturbing!"

His words, the feel of his breath against her, the soft curl of his golden hair brushing her lips, sent Dawnlyn's senses whirling. And she could not deny it - if he said one word about bedding her she would comply. She could not stop herself not could she deny her longing to feel his skin, all of him, in her hands, against her soft flesh, deep within her womb…

"But alas, my Dawnlyn, this night must be for thought. I cannot sap my strength…I am the leader. I must be clear of mind when we set sail."

She said nothing, in truth, she did not understand. It was as if he were an ascetic, deliberately denying his flesh to gain purity for the task ahead. She knew she should be relieved…and yet she wasn't.

He stroked the swell of her breast with a single finger; so light was his caress she wondered if she weren't imagining it. His head raised then and his lips brushed hers so carefully, so softly, she suffered an infinitesimal death.

And then he rose, easily, carrying her to the bed and carefully laying her on the eiderdown. Her lips were parted, expectant; her breasts outlined beneath the fine lien rose and fell gently, a place deep within her throbbed slowly, heavily, longingly…

Eric straightened up, gazed on her copper hair spread like a sea nymph's on the quilts, glistening, flowing.

"To leaved you like this, Dawnlyn, is more painful to me then you know." He smiled tightly. "But the hours grow short now and I've things still to do."

And without truly thinking, Dawnlyn said, "Cannot Sven or Gaard see to these things?"

Eric smiled. "Nay. I must." And then," You will be…all right when I am away?"

"Yes," she whispered softly. "I shall be quite fine. Sven will be here, in any case."

"He will," Eric answered, "and he will protect you while I'm abroad. Do not hesitate to seek him out if you have need."

"I won't forget. He is a loyal man."

"Yes. I trust him and I know he will see to it that you come to no harm."

Dawnlyn's marigold eyes searched Eric's face. "Will you…come to bed later?" She asked hesitantly.

"I plan to…even if it is only to kiss you farewell." He left, closing the chamber door carefully, not looking back at her.

Eric wandered through the dim tower, checking on his men, reassuring himself that all was prepared for the voyage and raid to follow. Some of his men slept heavily from the ale consumption at the meal; others lay about the great hall resting but too tense or excited to sleep.

Eric then climbed to the turret and checked with the sentry posted there.

The night was cool and a heavy mist rolled in from the sea, wetting the earth softly. As he had no wish to rest, Eric allowed the sentry to go below for a time and refresh himself. His act was not one of kindness; no, Eric wished to be alone with the hissing black sea, the cool night sky, his own curiously turbulent thoughts.

He rested elbows on the cool, damp stones of the wall and gazed out over the misty water. The fog met the sky in a line, like a bank of clouds, and above the moon shone through a haze, surrounded by grey clouds.

There was no sight like it, Eric mused, no sight as wild, as free, as provocative - it beckoned him. The sound of the sea crashing on the rocks far below lulled him with its eternal pounding. His eyelids grew heavy, too heavy to gaze on the silver moonlight as the full orb rode the night sky.

Time froze. With a start, Eric blinked his eyes, felt the damp stones beneath his elbows once more, the wild pounding of his heart. He shook his head to rid it of the restless bat wings of the chilling nightmare in which his lifelong adversary, Fenris, the Giant Wolf, had taken Dawnlyn from him. Then he unfolded himself, stood straight as his broadsword, spun around, taking the width of the turret in two long strides, and raced down the tower steps.

He banged open Dawnlyn's door, his breath held in his lungs still.

She was there! Fenris had not taken her, then! It was only a dream vision. And yet…it was a powerful sign. Without Eric at her side there was danger for Dawnlyn. He dared not leave her. And then he wondered fleetingly if he had ever meant to leave her here alone…

He strode to the bedside, placed a strong hand on her shoulder. "Wake up, Dawnlyn," he said, "wake up."

She stirred, opened her eyes. "Is it morning?" A frown creased her brow - the night had fled so quickly.

"No. But you must rise," he said urgently, "and fetch Meg to make ready your things. You are going with me to Norway."

Dawnlyn's eyes opened wide in shock. "I'm…what?" She breathed, her voice sleep-clouded.

"Going to Norway with me. Now rise and hurry and Meg will go, too."

"But I can't!" She cried. "I can't leave my home!" But Eric was already leaving, disappearing through the door. His words bounced emptily back at her from the cool stone walls.


	15. Wind Eater, The Magnificent

Dawnlyn could not actually comprehend the fact that she was on board _Wind Eater_, even though she was sitting on her sea chest under the awning and watching the Vikings' strong backs bend to the sixty oars that would take them out of the landing at Coldingham.

It had all happened too swiftly. Nothing made sense. All she knew was that one moment she was asleep in her own bed and the next she was being warned to wear her heaviest wool cloak and hustled aboard the skiff that took them out to Eric's ship.

She could not even talk to Eric because he was too busy with last-minute details, thus she had no idea why he had decided to take her, nor was she sure whether she was pleased or horrified. She could only sit huddled in a corner of the deck under the awning, out of the men's way, and wait until Eric had time for her.

The activity she views with bewildered curiosity. She had never been on board a ship in her life. It was a fine late spring day, and the sail bellied out, caught the stiff breeze and began to carry the ship to the northeast, toward Norway.

The sea gull shrieked and swooped around them, the stays hummed, and Dawnlyn began to notice the myriad sounds of the sea, endless and varied and new to her ear. She saw the Vikings lean to the oars willingly with cheerful jests and wide smiles; she saw Eric grinning from ear to ear, taller and more powerful then any, and jubilant, full of the joy of setting out across the leaping, heaving, grey water.

She still sat on her chest, which Eric had not had time to stow in his cabin, as quiet and timid as a mouse. Her eyes were large and bright hazel, catching the luminous light reflected from the water; her copper hair, bound loosely at the back, sprang about her shoulders wildly from the damp air. With a slim hand she felt her cheeks, sticky now with sea spray. It was all so new to her, so alien - even the ship seemed like a giant, monstrous beast, threatening, with its carved wolf head looming tall above the waves on the bow. And on the ship's sides were the hung shields of the men, gleaming proudly in the sun like the carapaces of giant, colourful beetles. What strange, frightening men these were whose great ships represented might, a promise of danger and death, yet also freedom and adventure.

Meg was with her, wide-eyed and terrified and utterly silent. Dawnlyn was even afraid to stand up, lest she fall, so unaccustomed was she to the rise and fall of _Wind Eater's_ narrow deck. She turned her head and watched the grey, fog-hazed line that was the coast of Scotland fade out of sight behind her, and then all there was to view was the unimaginably huge expanse of the sea and the four other Viking ships, tiny and vulnerable looking as they tossed on the waves.

She stared in wonder at her tall Viking and tried to imagine the courage that drove these men to cross uncharted oceans. Eric's stories came back to haunt her - tales of sailing and marauding from the eastern end of the sun-warmed Mediterranean to the far off western shore of Vinland, from geyser-sprouting Iceland to snow-shrouded Greenland, to the shores of Cathy and Araby and the giant rivers of the Russ.

What kind of men were these? Surly they were something slightly more then mortal to tempt fate with their confident grins, their rough jokes, their strange ships.

The fact of her body, her shell, sitting on board a Viking ship had no more reality for her then did the fact of her forthcoming marriage to an unchristian Norseman. Her actuality of it. She felt dazed, exposed to a gamut of emotional buffetings, uncertain of anything solid and secure in her life anymore.

She and Meg must have sat there for hours before Eric had time to stop and talk to her. He was windblown and smiling and wore only a thin white linen shirt, which molded itself to his muscled chest and torso. His hair blew about his face in careless waves as he stopped by the two women.

"Do you fare well?" He asked, his usual flinty eyes were light and joy-filled in the sun. "Do you have the seasickness?"

"No, but Eric, how am I to walk on this moving thing? I'm cold and hungry and afraid to put one foot in front of the other! And Meg, too!"

He laughed, his even white teeth sparkling. "You'll soon get used to it. This is only a short trip - only several days if the wind's right."

"But how do you know which direction to go in? It all looks the same."

"By Odin's beard, such ignorance!" He chuckled. "Do you not see the sun, the cloud banks, the different coloured currents? It's an open book for us. Have no fear. I could put us into the bay near Ulfrik Castle with my eyes closed!"

"My dear Lord, I hope so," breathed Dawnlyn. "I will pray for us all."

"You do that, my lady" - he grinned - "and meanwhile I will sail the ship and see you safely there!"

Then he summoned one of the men and had her trunk carried down below the deck to the tiny cabin she was to share with him. Meg would sleep in a corner of a storeroom and the rest of the men slept on the deck under the awnings, for the entire hold of the ship was filled with weapons, food and other necessities.

"This is no fat-bellied _knorr_ or merchantman," explained Eric. "This is a fighting ship, built in the Stavanger shipyard. She's as stout and as fast as any and has carried me safely from Egypt to the North Isles and back." He took Dawnlyn's chin in his hand and lifted her face to his. He seemed so tall, so proud to her suddenly, with the sun catching in his hair and his eyes deep blue pools. He stood, legs straddled casually, and arrogant pillar of strength. A small smile gathered at the corners of his mouth.

He helped her down the ladder to the cabin, explaining, "_Wind Eater_ has been my only wife until now. She may be jealous and not wish to share mw with you, so watch that you treat me well, woman." And with that he left her, swinging himself up the ladder to the deck with careless agility.

Dawnlyn sat on the hard bunk and stared after him, wondering whether he'd been joking or serious but couldn't for the life of her decide.

The day and the night went slowly yet steadily. Meg grew quite ill and retreated to her pallet with a bucket, moaning and retching. But Dawnlyn felt fine, even venturing on deck again, growing somewhat accustomed to the heaving under her feet.

She stared around her at the endless horizon, the unchanging vistas of white-tressed waves, and tried to understand Eric's ways. She knew, somehow, that she couldn't understand him without comprehending the sea and his ships. They were, she realized, so much a part of him.

The second day dawned overcast and chilly, a fog bank resting on the sea to the north. Still, the five ships scudded northeast, never slackening their graceful flight before the wind, but Dawnlyn noticed the men's faces were a bit more grim, their eyes watchful.

Eric did finally spend some time with her that morning, eating his breakfast on the deck at her side. "So you're not one of those puking women who sickens unto death when on the water. Good," he said, and she decided to take it as a complement.

When they'd eaten, Eric was called back to duty. Before he left her, he told her to go below to the cabin. "It looks like a gale is coming," he said. "There is no danger, so I do not wish you to panic, but a woman unused to the life on a ship could endanger herself and thus my own men. Do not mind how the waves loss us. It is nothing to _Wind Eater_." And he was off again, striding with ease into the sea spray.

So Dawnlyn dozed through the afternoon, worked on some embroidery and sat by Meg, who was still not feeling well. She deliberately avoided telling Meg of the gale approaching.


End file.
